


under the burden of solitude

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Don’t copy to another site, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Fluff, Forgive Me, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I promise you, John/Mary is mentioned but I'm not adding it as a relationship tag, M/M, Pining, Post-Season/Series 04, Season/Series 03, TFP doesn't happen, The author is ambivalent towards Mary, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, bed sharing, brief description of suicidal thoughts, briefest mention of rape, of sorts, s4 fix it, sherlock POV, sherlock fantasises constantly, the author doesn't know much about babies, this is so tropey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-12-29 21:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18302432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: He’s never had someone in his bed before. For a few days John’s scent will cling to the pillows, and when Sherlock goes to sleep he’ll be able to smell it, and he won’t feel so alone. Not that he has felt alone in a while, not since John came into his life, with his military-tight bed corners and scrambled eggs on Sunday. Spy-novels littered around in the living room, awful jumpers in the laundry hampers. Bits and pieces of John all over 221B, finding a place for themselves, stomping their presence on a space that once was little more than a flat, and is now (sort of, kind of) a home.Five times they shared a bed platonically, and one time they didn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/gifts).



> This is for you, allsovacant!!! Hope this cheers you up <3
> 
> 08.06.2019: I am absolutely bowled over by the response this little whim of mine has recieved. Thank you everyone who has reviewed, kudos-ed , bookmarked, or just read this fic. I honestly just wanted to write a post s4 fic to cleanse my soul, but I didn't know my readers would like it so much. You guys are the best. 
> 
> This fic has been beta-ed by Chemical_ Defect, they are amazing and absolutely the reason why this fic doesn't sound like gibberish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Chemical_Defect for being such a hard working beta<3 <3

 

 

> :I: the warm bodies shine together
> 
>  _Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --_  
>  _because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long_  
>  _and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station_  
>  _when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep_.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

 

 

 

The first time it happens is out of necessity.

“Jesus _fuck,”_ John seethes, holding his palm up to his nose, trying to peer through the fumes into his own room. “How did this even happen?”

  
They’re both standing side by side in front of the door, Sherlock covering his mouth and nostrils with his sleeve, John quietly seething beside him. He’s come to realise John has an awful temper. It reminds him of small dogs, terriers and chihuahuas, dogs that don’t know they’re quite so small and see no problem with picking fights with larger ones, Dobermans, Pit bulls, Alsatians. Foaming at the mouth, tiny sharp teeth gnashing. John is like a dog in other ways too, though. His loyalty being one of them.

“Well,” he starts to say, voice muffled by his sleeve. He has to think up an appropriate explanation, but John has known him long enough, and he finally decides to simply go with, “Experiment.” John makes a noise that translates roughly into “Yeah of course, what else was I expecting **?** ”

“I can fix it,” Sherlock continues, and starts to step into the room, determined to air it out by opening the windows… or something. He’ll figure it out. Before he can do so, however, John grabs him by the scruff of his neck and pulls him back.

“Oh no you don’t,” he threatens quietly. “You’re going to pass out in there, you tit. Just… let’s just step away from here, yeah.”

Does he know he’s still holding onto Sherlock’s t-shirt? He can feel the warmth of his fingers bleeding through the material. He starts pulling him along, away from the noxious fumes currently engulfing the bedroom and making it into a hazardous place, and marches Sherlock down the stairs to the cleaner atmosphere of their sitting room.

He decides to take a look at Sherlock, seats him down on the sofa and tips his head up with a finger under his chin. Turns him this way and that, peers into his eyes. John’s natural caretaker tendencies seem to blossom more thoroughly with Sherlock around, he’s always doing things like… this. Sherlock, holding his ribs together after getting kicked at by a criminal during a case, John tutting in concern as he lifts up his shirt and presses in gently to check for tenderness, taping him together even as he complains that they should go to **an** A&E. John standing behind him and holding his unruly hair back as he vomits into a toilet after eating something only slightly poisonous (for an experiment!).  
He shouts and seethes and tells Sherlock that he’s a “great big idiot, won’t make it past fourty at this rate,” but still proceeds to tuck him into bed and make him soup, check his temperature.

A contradictory man, with gentle hands and a rough voice. Sherlock will never get tired of trying to figure him out.

“Well, you look alright,” he finally decides, stepping away. Sherlock feels a little cold, all of a sudden. It was nice, being touched like that. Even if it was only out of John’s doctorly concern. They touch all the time, he doesn’t think John even notices. An absent hand petting his hair when he walks by, hips brushing as they move around in their crowded kitchen, pressed up against each other in supply cabinets. Sometimes when Sherlock is trying to get information out of a suspect John will stand directly behind him, breathing over his shoulder, one hand already on his gun. Protective tendencies, they get even more intense when it comes to Sherlock, and he doesn’t understand why.

“Of course I’m alright.”

John rolls his eyes, sits down in his armchair and takes out his phone. “We have to call someone to get rid of those fumes…” he mutters.

***

 

 

They’re told to stay from the upstairs floor for at least twenty **-** four hours. Sherlock complains that even _he_ could have given the same advice. John tells him to shut it and make some tea for once, he owes him for locking him out of his own bedroom. Sherlock refuses to do this for all of five minutes before he relents.

John isn’t going to make tea, even if he _really_ wants the tea, because John can be as stubborn as he is, if not more. And Sherlock actually does want some tea, and maybe making John a cuppa might make him less angry at him.

 

When he comes back into the living room with two mugs of steaming brew, John is fluffing his pillow and putting it carefully at the head of the sofa, after which he picks up a quilt and throws it over.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, putting down the mugs on the coffee table.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” John counters, leaning down and picking up one of the cups, the white one with the RAMC logo. It’s one of his few personal possessions.  
John didn’t come into his life with a great many of those, anyway, just a lonely suitcase and his cane. For a man who’s seen so much (alcoholic, abusive father, promiscuous, wild twenties, the horror and gore of war), John has very little physical proof of them. Perhaps he never had somewhere to call home. Sherlock wonders if he feels differently now.

“You’re… making a makeshift bed for yourself on our sofa,” he guesses, hands clasped behind his back. “Why?”

John stares at him. “Where else am I supposed to sleep? If you’ve forgotten, let me remind you that my bedroom is currently being aired out of poisonous gases as we speak. Jesus, never thought I’d say that.”

“If you sleep here you’ll hurt your back,” Sherlock says quickly, before he loses his nerve, “You’re welcome to sleep in my bed.”

“I’m not throwing you out of your own room,” John sighs, sinking into the armchair.

“I have a double bed, there’s plenty of space.”

John stops in the process of drinking, looks up at Sherlock over the rim of his cup. He gently lowers it down and licks his lips, staring at him. It’s a gesture that Sherlock really _must_ put a stop to, it distracts him _so much._

“What… exactly are you suggesting?” he asks slowly.

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s a practical solution, John.  We can simply… share my bed.”

John’s eyes widen fractionally, before his gaze drops. He sniffs loudly, takes an enormous gulp of tea before he sets down the mug with rather more force than necessary.  
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Sherlock tries not to let his disappointment show on his face. What a wasted opportunity. John sleeping next to him… so many things to experiment on.  
How long does his REM cycle last? What’s his resting heart rate? He could chart his breathing patterns.

John sees his face and his cheeks turn pink. He looks uncomfortable, squirms in his seat.  
“Look- ah, Sherlock,” he takes a deep breath. “I don’t… look, you must know I have nightmares. The PTSD and everything, it doesn’t make me a great sleeping buddy. I don’t think it’d be safe for me to sleep next to you. I could lash out in my sleep and hurt you.”

“I know that,” Sherlock says impatiently. “But you’re going to wake up with a kink in your shoulder and a sore neck. We could avoid that. You could sleep in my bed.”

John continues to protest for a few more minutes, Sherlock tells him that he’s an accomplished boxer, has a black belt in Judo, and even knows a bit of sword fighting. He’s been in much more dangerous situations, John’s hardly a threat to him. Besides, he’ll probably sleep better if he sleeps next to someone, and why are we still arguing about this anyway?  
Just get up and come to my bedroom, John, so I can lie down next to you and catalogue your REM cycle. (he doesn’t say that last bit)

In the end, John finally agrees, and they’re soon in bed together, John wearing those pinstriped pyjamas that hang low around his narrow hips and an old bottle green t-shirt. John insists on keeping a pillow between the two of them, just in case. Sherlock thinks this is unnecessary, but he doesn’t want John to change his mind.

He smells of shampoo, old spice, and that cheap bar of soap he uses. He’s just taken a bath, Sherlock could bottle that scent and keep it under his pillow. It’s so familiar, calm and comforting.  
It reminds him that he doesn’t live alone anymore.

They lie down next to each other in the dark, both of them on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, separated from each other by a great ruddy pillow. Sherlock has a momentary fantasy of inching his fingers across the bed and - no, he’s not supposed to think of that. He _doesn’t_ think of that, he’s not the kind of man who thinks of those things.

 He’s never had someone in his bed before. For a few days John’s scent will cling to the pillows; and when Sherlock goes to sleep he’ll be able to smell it, and he won’t feel so alone. Not that he has felt alone in a while, not since John came into his life, with his military-tight bed corners and scrambled eggs on Sunday. Spy-novels littered around in the living room, awful jumpers in the laundry hampers.

   
Bits and pieces of John all over 221B, making their home there, stomping their presence on a space that once was little more than a flat, and is now (sort of, kind of) a home.

Finally, blessedly, John’s breathing evens out as his eyes flutter closed, he murmurs goodnight and falls asleep. He sleeps on his back, perfectly straight, and that can’t possibly be comfortable, can it? He doesn’t have a lot of time to dwell on it before sleep starts catching him and pulling him down. He’d planned to do so many things! But he can’t, he’s never felt so… tired, before. So sleepy. Must have something to do with John’s presence.

He drifts off.

John doesn’t have any nightmares.

***

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

>   
>  :II: in the darkness, the hand moves
> 
> _Come, my beloved_
> 
> _Consider the lilies._
> 
> _We are of little faith.  
>  We talk too much._

 

Sherlock had just dozed off when he hears the creak of bedsprings from upstairs.

An hour ago he’d been bent over an experiment at the kitchen table. He blinks his eyes open, cups his hand behind his nape with a groan. He must have fallen asleep at the table itself. There it is again, the creak of springs. At first Sherlock thinks: masturbation. John does it most mornings, usually in the privacy of the washroom, occasionally he’ll wank himself off and fall asleep at night. The frequency increases when he hasn’t gotten a leg over some woman he met at work/pub/during a case (Sherlock always makes sure to question the conventionally attractive witnesses alone, but John is a sneaky bastard) in over a fortnight. John is a man with a healthy sexual appetite, he’d have fucked through most of London’s population if Sherlock didn’t keep him busy.

That… sounded odd. Sherlock kept him busy on _cases._ Not… doing anything else.

In any case, the upstairs noise is too erratic, unlike the rhythmic bounce of John pleasuring himself. And as far as he can remember, John _hadn’t_ brought anyone home last night (thank God, he hates when that happens, hates it so much he leaves little surprises in the kitchen for the woman to see the following morning: brain matter in the sink, a sheep’s head in the microwave, a human arm in the refrigerator).  

 _“Absolute_ _nutter, you’re a horror sometimes. At this rate I’m going to die alone in an unmarked grave; is it too much to ask that you_ not _frighten away any woman who comes to this flat?”_

Yes. Yes, it is.

(Sherlock would never allow John to die alone, in an unmarked grave. If Sherlock dies before him -and he probably will, his lifestyle isn’t suited for old age - he’ll come back to life through sheer willpower to make sure John has a brilliant funeral, flowers heaped up over his tombstone, loving words etched on the stone to see that John was adored, respected, and cherished when he was alive.)

Sherlock decides to go upstairs and check if John is alright. In all probability, he’ll be having a nightmare. He might hurt himself. He climbs the stairs, turns the knob, gently pushes open the door. There’s only the faintest moonlight streaming through the window. Sherlock moves closer, tries not to wake John up suddenly. Bedsheets are twisted around his ankles, the blanket lies on the floor in a heap. John’s eyelids flutter rapidly, his forehead is damp with sweat and he’s saying something in a language Sherlock doesn’t understand.

Then it tumbles over into English, “ _no, no, no, no, no, no”_ over and over again. John’s fingers are twitching, they lift upward as if to grab something before falling back down again. His head is tossing haplessly, little twitches of movement that Sherlock can make no sense of.

He stands for a few seconds at the side of his bed, deliberating. Then he reaches forward with a hand, cups it around John’s shoulder, and shakes it gently.

“John,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “John, wake up. You’re having a dream.”

John’s brow furrows, his lips part and the chanting stops. “Sherlock,” he murmurs, still asleep.

“Yes, it’s me,” Sherlock answers. “Wake up.”

And suddenly, a hand goes up, curls around his wrist, and pulls. Sherlock staggers, goes sprawling right on top of John. He reaches out a palm to stop himself before he hurts either himself or John, and one foot still touches the ground. His knee is bent and awkwardly angled, somewhere near John’s shin.

His face is just centimetres from his.

“Ah,” John mutters, and his eyes flutter open. Dark blue, shining, staring up at Sherlock as if seeing him for the first time. Sherlock finds himself incapable of moving. He swallows, stares back at John, can feel the heat of his sleep-warm body through his thin-t shirt, can smell the slight tang of sweat. It’s an earthy sort of smell, a John smell.

“Sherlock?” he blinks, confused.

“You were,” Sherlock’s voice falters. His mouth is quite close to John’s. If he just leaned forward and - no. Wait. That’s not. He soldiers on. “You were having a dream. I - came to wake you. I was worried you might thrash about, hurt yourself.”

He sounds quite steady for a man who has his cock pressed against John’s thigh. He vaguely wonders if John can feel it. Probably can’t. Not like he’s hard or anything. Oh. Wait a moment. _No._ Thinking about it has obviously, _obviously,_ manifested in a physical reaction and Sherlock needs to get up, get away. His body automatically struggles, and John suddenly seems to notice how close they are.

“Oh,” he swallows, his cheeks go red, they practically glow in the dark. “Oh, I’m… sorry. Shit.” He lets go of him, and Sherlock slowly peels himself away, straightens up until he’s standing again.

“I, er-“ he dithers. “I’ll leave you then.”

He turns around, hoping that his half-hard cock will wilt in the next few seconds. Right before he walks out the door, John calls his name.

Sherlock pauses, turns around to look at him, raises a quizzical eyebrow. God, can he just _go_ now, take care of this - how do people usually take care of this? John would know, he does it frequently. Not that Sherlock can ask him, _obviously._

John is sitting up now, hands in his lap, looking straight at him. Ash blonde hair sticking to his forehead, his sweat must still be drying, tacky and musky, against his chest.

“Could you, er,” he sniffs. He does it whenever he’s nervous. That and the lip licking. “Stay. For a bit. Not the whole night.”

Sherlock tries not to gape. “Stay? In… in your bed?”

John nods. “You don’t have to, obviously. I just. That last time we slept like that - do you remember? Yeah. I didn’t have any nightmares. Just stay until I fall asleep, I dunno. Whatever you like.”

Heterosexual men, do not, as a rule, ask their heterosexual (at least to John’s eyes) friends to sleep next to them, even as a favour. Sherlock stands there, quite still, trying to parse together the implications of this. John and him are, by no means, a regular pair. The boundaries of platonic friendship have been blurred between the two of them plenty of times, this probably isn’t even the oddest thing the two of them have done together. He wonders if John remembers that one time he’d fallen asleep on his shoulder during a stake out and drooled all over his Belstaff. He vaguely recalls the time he’d accidentally set fire to the kitchen sink (and to himself) and John had to strip him right down to his pants and push him into the shower.

“ _Almost gave yourself third degree burns! Could have killed yourself! You_ _fucking lunatic! What if I hadn’t been here?”_

But you were there, John. Like always. 

“Yes, alright,” he says, closes the door and walks up to John’s bed.

John’s bed.

He’s never been in John’s bed before.

“Thanks,” John says, in a small voice. He doesn’t like being dependent on someone, never has. John is fiercely capable, doesn’t like asking people for favours. The nightmares must be really bad, for him to ask this of Sherlock. He shifts to the side, bends over the bed to pick up the blanket he’d thrashed to the ground. Sherlock gingerly lays back down against the extra pillow. It smells of John.

“Hope you’re not a blanket hog,” John jokes weakly, as he throws it over them both.

Is he? Sherlock doesn’t know. He hasn’t shared a blanket with anyone in years, not since he would crawl into Mycroft’s bed when they were children.  
(He used to have terrible dreams, and Mycroft would read to him until he fell asleep). He tells John as much.

“What, no one?” he asks, as Sherlock lies down next to him.

“Nope,” Sherlock replied, popping the ‘p’. “I suppose you’ll find out tonight.”

“Sounds ominous,” John mutters, before he turns away from him and pretends to go to sleep.

After a few minutes, Sherlock asks, “What were you dreaming about?”  
He looks straight up at the ceiling.

John is quiet for a few moments. Sherlock can hear the pace of his breathing quicken up a bit.

“The war,” he answers, still turned on his side, talking to the empty part of the room. “Explosions. Blood. Someone dying in front of me. Kept trying to patch him up, the wound kept opening. It was horrible.”

Ah. John dreams of being unable to save people. He has healer’s hands, healer’s hands that are covered in callouses from handling a gun so frequently. John needs them both, he supposes. Someone to take care of and someone to fight for. Sherlock must fill some gaping void inside of him, in the same way as John does for him.

“You’re safe now,” he tells him, and it’s not strictly speaking, true. They live dangerous lives. Sherlock gets almost shot at least once a week, they literally chase people who do terrible things - murderers, rapists, kidnappers. The two of them, against the rest of the world, and the world is not a tender place. John has seen so many terrible things, on the battlefield and off of it. He must be aware of this, aware of the fact that it’s just a platitude, that neither of them are ever, really, absolutely _safe._

“I know,” he says, instead.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little something for my friend, allsovacant! hope this cheers you up <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it’s different, with John. He likes the routine of it, the familiarity, the comfort. Likes asking him what kind of tea he wants since he’s going to the shops anyway to get some litmus paper.

 

 

> :III: to the center of the flesh
> 
> _I think I should have loved you presently,_
> 
> _And given in earnest words I flung in jest;_
> 
> _And lifted honest eyes for you to see,_
> 
> _And caught your hand against my cheek and breast,_
> 
> _And all my pretty follies flung aside-_

* * *

 

 

 

The night they come back to 221B from the Pool, John doesn’t say anything. Not at first. He’s furious, Sherlock can tell. Mouth pressed into a thin, straight line, fists curled into balls at his sides. He’d already taken his gun back from Sherlock in the cab, and he’s holding it in his hand. Takes it with him to the kitchen, Sherlock can hear the dull metallic thud as he unloads it and clicks the safety back on.

Sherlock takes his time, taking off his scarf and hanging his coat behind the door before he follows him there. John is currently wildly opening the cabinets, rummaging through them for something. There isn’t much there, dry pasta and rice, tightly sealed containers of chemicals that Sherlock buys in bulk.

“John,” he says, tiredly, softly, leaning against the bit of wall that divides the kitchen from the living room.

“Shut up,” John responds, his voice tight. He’s not looking at him. “Just shut up. I need a drink. Do you have anything.”

Sherlock hesitates. “I don’t-“

“Never mind,” John interrupts him, and extracts an old, dusty glass bottle from the depths of one of the cabinets. Ah, whisky, Sherlock isn’t good with alcohol, appreciates a fine wine when required. The bottle John is holding is an ancient gift from Mycroft, something terribly posh and indulgent, and just on the side of ridiculously expensive. John doesn’t even use a glass, he tears the cap off and leans against the dining table, downs one fourth of it in one go.

Sherlock is about to go towards him, say _something,_ but then John is slamming the bottle down roughly on the table. Then his fist comes down, hard. The gun skitters, a test tube tinkles, the chemistry equipment on the surface trembles precariously. Sherlock startles, just a bit.

Before he can say anything, John is striding towards him, quick steps, hand curling into the front of his shirt, crowding into his personal space and pushing him, up and against the doorframe. His eyes are dark, they burn as they look up at him, his cheeks flushed with the first swill of drink.

Sherlock swallows, can feel his heart thud uncomfortably against the cage of his ribs.

“If you,” he says, voice dangerously soft. His breath smells of whisky. “ _Ever_ do that again, I swear to God, I will take this gun and shoot you myself.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and his awful, treacherous body suddenly lights up. “I-“

“You lunatic. You fucking lunatic. He had me strapped in Semtex, had six red dots on you. You could have _died._ You know what happens when people die, hmm? _They don’t fucking come back._ Is it so difficult to communicate, hmm? Great Sherlock Holmes _always_ has to work alone! Rush into everything and then get himself _killed!_ ”

 _I was trying to protect you,_ he wants to say. _It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, it was supposed to be a game, and then it wasn’t, because it stopped being interesting the moment he made you a part of it. Then I just felt sick with the fear of losing you, and it wasn’t fun, not anymore. All I wanted was to keep you safe._

He’s never wanted to protect anything so fiercely (never had anything worthy of protection), he thinks, but how can he make John understand this? Years and years had gone by and Sherlock had gotten along just _fine,_ but then this ridiculous man with his proclivity for dangerous situations and sociopathic drug addicts had just limped into his life and now Sherlock had something he actually _cared_ about. Something that people (James Moriarty) could threaten to take away, and now that Sherlock knew what it was like to have him, how could he ever just stand by and let him go? He wishes he could lash out in frustration just like John, because this is unfair for him too. He’d never asked for this. (Not that he doesn’t want it)

John’s knuckles dig into his sternum, and his voice comes back down to a furious whisper. “That mad wanker was going to have you shot and me blown to bits, lovely ending to our brief friendship. _Jesus,_ you insane _twat,_ you have the self-preservation skills of a goat in a petting zoo. If you run off on your own again, Sherlock, I’m not kidding, I _will_ –“

He pauses.

Leave?

He wouldn’t leave, would he?

-“punch you in the face, I don’t know. Something drastic, I promise.”

(Oh. Relief floods his body. He could take that. He’d been punched in the face plenty of times. That would be preferable to living without John.)

John sniffs, continues to glare at him. Sherlock can feel the heat of his body, remnants of adrenaline making him angry and desperate. His pink tongue flickers out, licks at his bottom lip and his eyes flick, for the briefest of moments, towards his mouth. Sherlock half expects him to lunge forwards, close the last few inches between them and smash their lips together.

He doesn’t though, of course he doesn’t. Instead he clears his throat, lets go of him and steps away. Cold air fills the space between them, and Sherlock can’t move. Should he say something? He should say something. He doesn’t know how to frame his thoughts into words, without sounding defensive and upset.

“Right,” John nods, his fingers flex and unflex at his side. “Glad we set that straight.” He’s blushing. Why is he blushing? John turns away from him, takes the bottle and leaves the kitchen without so much as a sideways glance at him. No doubt he will rush into his bedroom and drink himself to a stupor, and then masturbate furiously into the mattress, post-case he always was a bit aroused. Adrenaline and fear, a potent cocktail. Sherlock always felt something sparking between the two of them afterwards, seductive and dangerous, just on the other side of platonic. The two of them, panting hard and giggling, it would be so easy to _just-_

A few seconds later Sherlock realises that his trousers are a little tented at the crotch. Oh. Not again. Experimentally, he presses the heel of his hand against it, gasps at the immediate friction. _Oh._ That. That’s lovely. John scent is all over him, he was right here in the kitchen, pressing him against the wall, and- no. This is wrong.

God, but he hasn’t done this in _ages,_ and it’s just biological imperative. Sherlock cups his hand over his own erection and groans between his teeth- ah- just a quick and efficient means to, hnnghh- diffuse the tension. Get it out of his system, so he can think again. He pulls the zipper of his trousers down and wraps a hand around himself, tries to bring himself to completion as quickly as possible.

He desperately conjures some random image of a conventionally attractive male specimen- well defined pecs, strong jaw, slender fingers, firm arse. It doesn’t work. All he can think about is John in his armchair, fly open and hand lazily stroking his cock as he looks at Sherlock, lips parted and pupils blown wide. Fuck. _Fuck._ His own fingers move feverishly over his shaft, and the John in his fantasy is grabbing at his hips, pulling him on top of himself, his cock sliding between Sherlock’s cheeks and inside his eager hole-

It would be tight, just on the border of painful, and _oh,_ it’s so absolutely filthy but it feels _so_ good, and there- he clamps a hand over his mouth just as he ejaculates into his hand, his keening moan of “ _John!”_  coming out thankfully muffled.

Sherlock pants, hands falling to his side, dripping come on the hardwood floor. _What_ had that been? He’d never…never thought of John in that way. (well, maybe a little, but never, never quite so _graphically.)_ The rush of endorphins fades in the next few seconds and after that all Sherlock feels is _wrong._ But it won’t happen again, he won’t _let_ it, this was just a one time thing, the result of an adrenaline fuelled evening, chemicals still coursing through his body and making him do ridiculous things like masturbate to the fantasy of riding his flatmate’s prick.

God, but the _want._ It doesn’t fade.

***

~~_Hush, now. I’m only here to return your coat._ ~~

_Why would I need you? No reason at all._

“John,” he slurs. His gaze is still a bit hazy. Warm blankets draped over his body, the softness of his own bed underneath his back. John’s face swims in front of his eyes. Briefly, he can feel a hand brush through his hair, linger at his cheek and brush down, finger tips against his jaw.

How did he get here? The last thing he remembers is getting poked at with a needle- _damn you, Irene-_ and John patting his cheek, trying to get him to wake up. His angry voice, absolutely lovely, asking The Woman what on earth he’d given him. Oh John. If only you know how many things I’ve injected this body with. Someone must have carried him here, and John is the only explanation. He can’t imagine it was easy, dragging his near comatose body up the stairs. He hopes he didn’t bang his head anywhere, but he’s sure John was careful with him.

“Hey. Everything’s fine. How do you feel?” John asks “Christ, she really did a number on you, didn’t she? Mad old hag.” He adds the last bit under his breath, probably thinks Sherlock can’t hear him. Irene isn’t too awful, misunderstood, really. But it’s so nice to watch John get all jealous and protective.

“Why are you here?” he tries to lift a hand to John’s face but his hand can only reach the fuzziness of his jumper. Why does John keep wearing those jumpers? He’s seen him in a vest, he has such a lovely, compact body underneath- surprisingly well defined biceps, just the slightest softness around the middle. Sherlock would like to lie down there, press his head against his stomach and have John pet his hair.

“Just checking up on you.” Fingers circle his wrist and bring them down. Sherlock whines, and he would love if John just lied down here, next to him. Sherlock could press his nose into his neck and smell him, push his fingers underneath all those annoying layers and spread his hand against his skin. John has such lovely skin. Sherlock wants to touch him all the time, but he can’t, because he’s not _allowed._

“Lie down here,” he tries to reach for John again. “Lie down here next to me.” Half of his face isn’t working, and darkness starts creeping into his vision again. He tries to sit up but John’s strong hands push him down. Oh. That must mean something. Yes, he’d like John to push him down like that, get on top of him, anchor him with the warmth of his body. Just for once, Sherlock would like to be held, fit against his chest and press his mouth to the base of his throat, lace their fingers together.

“Er- what? No, I don’t think that’s- hmm. No, just- just go back to sleep, yeah?”

“John, John, did you like the ashtray I stole for  you? Wouldn’t have-“ his eyelids flutter and he bats weakly at John but he’s so tired. –“ wouldn’t have done it for anyone _else._ And the cat. The cat I brought you from chinatown, the lady said my wife would like it. Are you my _wife,_ John?” and then he giggles, can’t help it, it’s so ridiculous. They’re practically an old married couple, aren’t they?

He can see John smile fondly at him, even through his blurred vision. “Yeah, it was lovely, thanks. Close your eyes, okay? You need to sleep this off. When you wake up we can watch _Another Day to Die.”_

No. Sherlock hates those spy films. They’re so unrealistic and stupid.

John brushes a palm against his cheek again, and he’s tucking him in, getting up and leaving him with cold emptiness. “John,” he murmurs. “John, come back-“

“I’ll be back,” John promises, and the room is engulfed in darkness again.

***

 

Sherlock is just stepping out of the loo when he catches John slipping a t-shirt over his head. He just gets a glimpse of the starburst scar that stretches over his shoulder. He’s never seen John without a t-shirt, even when he steps out of the washroom after taking a bath he wears that awful dark blue bathrobe. Sherlock is considering burning it one of these days, he’ll buy John a new one, something that complements the tan tone of his skin, his cobalt eyes.

John turns around and notices him standing there, smiles at him. “I’m knackered. You going to sleep, anytime soon?”

Sherlock considers this. Probably. The case is over. A ghost dog put to rest, a very bad man blown to pieces in front of them. Henry Knight will sleep better tonight.

Sherlock, however, might not, because the past has a way of catching up with them all. Fear always finds the cracks in their armour, slips through, and even he can’t prevent Moriarty’s dead eyes from flashing in front of his face. It’s unsettling, how one person can embody everything he’s afraid of. He sighs, pads his way across the room and takes his Belstaff from where it’s hanging on the back of the door.

“Maybe later,” he murmurs, starts to rummage in the pocket. He can hear John come up behind him, grab his wrist to still his movements.

“I binned them.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, looks down at John. John doesn’t back down from his glare, instead he simply tips his chin up defiantly, stares him down like he would an insubordinate officer.

Sherlock feels angry, because at least the cigarettes might have helped with…this. He’s never told anyone he valued them as a friend before, never been so scared he almost pissed his pants, never had so many emotions fighting for dominance inside of his stomach. He deserved this much. He opens his mouth to tell John this, tell him he’s an _idiot,_ yes, and he has a _simple mind_ and he couldn’t possibly understand the complex workings of his own brain and what it needs to continue working, but instead he clamps it shut, turns away from him and pulls down his coat, swishes it over his shoulders.

“You better not be-“ John calls after him, but Sherlock’s already opened the door and left.

***

John comes after him fifteen minutes later, stamping and tromping. Sherlock’s sitting on a bench in the attached inn garden, and John tumbles down next to him.

“There’s an enormous bed that neither of us are making any use of,” he begins. Breath frosts in front of his face, he’s wearing his pyjamas, same as Sherlock.

“Well, no one asked you to leave it.” Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest.

John sighs, like he’s tired of Sherlock behaving childishly. It’s a sound he hears very often, and like always, its tinged with exasperation and fondness in equal measure. There are only a handful of times that John has _really_ been angry with him (today being one of them) the rest of the time John is fighting off surprised laughter, because Sherlock amuses him. Sherlock, with all of his quirks, that most people have called “freakish” or “odd” all his life…makes John laugh. Not in a mean way, though, never in a mean way.

They don’t speak for a while. Sherlock decides he’ll stew for a few more minutes, after which he’ll get up and stomp mutinously back to their room. His feet are getting cold.

“The first time,” John breaks the silence. “The first time I saw a man get blown to bits in front of me, I’d only been in the army for a year. I was barely 30.”

Sherlock stills, looks nervously at John. This couldn’t possibly bode well. Had Frankland's death triggered some traumatic memory? His PTSD? He waits with bated breath for John to finish, twists his fingers together.

“I pissed my pants,” he says flatly. “There were guts everywhere. It was horrible, blood staining the ground, I had nightmares about it for weeks. Still do, sometimes.”

“Why are you telling me this.”

“I retched, every time I woke up, would vomit all over my bed. I could smell it, that awful smell of burnt flesh. Bits and pieces of human body everywhere. It’s not something you forget easily.”

“John.”

John sighs, turns to look at him, and then slowly places a hand on his shoulder. “I’m a grown man in my forties and I still have dreams so bad they make me cry,” he tells Sherlock. Sherlock can’t manage to say anything, he wants to, though. He wants to open his mouth and offer some modicum of comfort, because these are horrible things for a man to have experienced, and John, stoic, careful John, never talks about them. Always so particular about never opening up to anyone, and yet he chooses to tell _him_ about one of his most awful memories.

“Sherlock, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from the war, it’s that fear doesn’t pick and choose,” his eyes are wide and bright, shining with sincerity. Sherlock’s breath catches for a second. “It creeps up on all of us, and none of us have any kind of immunity from it, you know? All of us are just one big scare away from realising we’re just human. And we’re allowed to be human.”

“Some would say I’m not human,” he chokes out, in a rather juvenile tone. Like he’s complaining. He isn’t. It’s just a fact. He understands why people think that way about him, and he hasn’t ever felt the need to change that opinion.

John replies without missing a beat. “Well, they’re idiots, then, aren’t they?”

He laughs then, a short chuckle, a tiny sound of mirth, it comes out sounding a tad exhausted, and John joins him. After a while the grounding hand at his shoulder falls into the empty space between them. Sherlock wishes he could touch him, cup his hand over his, ask John how on earth he managed to turn everything on its head, what he did to make Sherlock so utterly desperate to be held in his esteem. When had he started caring so much about what people thought of him?

(Not people. John. Just John.)

“Come on, let’s go to sleep, I’m freezing my bollocks off.” He stands up, looks expectantly at Sherlock, and when Sherlock doesn’t ~~obey~~ move immediately  he rolls his eyes and grabs his wrist and pulls him up. (He didn’t have to, Sherlock would have followed him, but there he goes again, making excuses to touch him. It’s not as though Sherlock _minds._ )

And just like that, he is forgiven.

They do get to bed after that, and it’s not a very large bed, even though the inn owners had called it  a “double” and John, with his typical hyperbole, had dubbed it “enormous”. They slide in next to each other, and it’s…pleasant. Sherlock had thought that it would be somewhat awkward, what with John’s reaction to the owners assuming they were a couple. It’s not though.

“I don’t understand you,” Sherlock says softly, in the dark.

“I suppose you hate that,” John replies dryly. He shifts a bit so he’s lying on his back. He’s tired, wants to sleep. But he stays awake, (struggles to) because he wants to listen to Sherlock.

“You’re so determined to humanise me. Even in your blog posts. You romanticise me, make me sound like a hero. At first I thought it was to attract more readership, people love a good sensational story. But that’s not it. You actually think so. You actually think I’m…all of those things. _Bit of an arrogant prick, but he’s kind enough when he wants to be._ ”

John chuckles quietly. “No need to get so defensive, Spock. I don’t know what to tell you. That’s just how I see you.”

~~Who the hell is this Spock person anyway?~~

Sherlock hums, because he doesn’t trust himself to speak. _That’s just how I see you._ How simple it is for John, to say these kinds of things to him, and have absolutely no inkling of their effect. Oblivious, charming John, has no idea that he leaks warmth everywhere, and Sherlock (cold/freakish/annoying/weird Sherlock) laches on to it so eagerly, without the slightest bit of hesitation.

“Goodnight, John,” he whispers.

“G’night.”

John falls asleep easily, a remnant of his army days.  He lies next to him a few inches away and while it would be nice to be touching each other, they don’t. And it’s fine. It’s not like Sherlock expected it.

He does want it though. John snores softly next to him and Sherlock allows himself just the tiniest of moments to fantasise.

It’s obviously not the first time he’s thought of John…this way. (Although he’s refrained from touching himself after that one awful masturbation session pressed up against his kitchen wall) It slips into his mind at the most inopportune of moments, when John is munching on toast across from him, or when he’s fallen asleep on the armchair with his novel-of-the-week open on his chest. Sherlock will think about climbing into his lap and pressing his lips to his, will think about licking marmalade off his mouth. When they come back from a case, giggling and high on adrenaline, he wonders, just for a second, how it would feel to just push John against the wall and kiss him, with tongue and teeth, their saliva intermingling. What if John were to fuck him, bend him over the dining table and take him like that? Or ask Sherlock to do the same to him, spread his legs and pull Sherlock down on top of him?

Yes, those are a little pornographic, those are fantasies he pushes down and tries not to think about.

Right now, though. Right now he just wishes he could curl up against John, wrap his arms around his middle and hold him close. Press his nose into the ash blonde hair, breathe in his scent. Wake up like that, twisted around him, limbs tangled, ~~(like lovers)~~ a makeshift prison so John can never leave him.

Bit Not Good, that. (the depth of his covetousness regarding John is alarming)

He’s not allowed to want these things. He’s not _allowed._ They won’t happen and Sherlock needs to get a hold on himself, be happy with this thing he has, with John. This quiet domesticity.

(He thought it would be boring, that bit. Arguing over take out menus, milk and fabric softener next to formaldehyde on the shopping list, knocking on the bathroom door because _how long do your baths have to be, John_ or _Did you use up all the hot water, you prat?_ After all, Sherlock is not suited for that kind of life. But it’s different, with John. He likes the routine of it, the familiarity, the comfort. Likes asking him what kind of tea he wants since he’s going to the shops anyway to get some litmus paper. These are just more things to ~~love~~  find interesting about John)

Anyway, he has the Cases, the Work. Bond movie nights and Cluedo and locked room murders. He can’t ruin this by being sentimental and stupid, because John will leave and there will be no more jumpers in the laundry hamper,  no one to put his stolen body parts in Tupperware, no more Old Spice shaving cream in their shared bathroom.

Whatever he has, it’s enough.

***

When he wakes up, he feels something hard and hot pressing against him from the back. Right on the cleft of his arse.

 _Oh._ Is that?

That certainly is…

Sherlock’s mind goes blank. All he can hear is white noise.

He flushes, doesn’t move at all. Or should he? What if he were to just wiggle his arse a bit- oh. He feels the imperceptible shift of hips against him, John’s  morning erection probes a bit, clearly growing more interested in the proceedings. Sherlock’s jaw tenses so hard he thinks he might break his teeth. The weight presses in, John grunts behind him. Sherlock’s lips part, he has to prevent the whimper from escaping and waking him up, has to force himself not to push back, encourage this early morning dry hump-

Suddenly, it stops. He can feel the sharp intake of breath behind him, the sudden loss of warmth.  Shit. John’s woken up. Sherlock can feel him still, move away swiftly. He doesn’t move a muscle himself, doesn’t want John to know he…ah…felt it? That he was awake while John was still half- dreaming of fucking someone? (Sherlock was just convenient, a warm body, nothing more, he’s not going to read into this. He refuses to) He did feel it though. It’s substantial. Quite above average. Sherlock’s measurements were not completely off the mark. The thought does funny things to his head.

He feels the bed shift and dip as he rolls off, straightens up, moves into the bathroom. After a minute he can hear the shower open. Ah, cold shower, that’s supposed to flag down an erection.

They don’t share a bed for a long time after that.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t belong here, in this happy (normal) domestic space, with the cream-coloured walls and cut flowers in vases.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> :IV: the skin trembles in happiness
> 
>  
> 
> _I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,_
> 
> _some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent._
> 
> _I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster._
> 
> _—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture_
> 
> _I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident_
> 
> _the art of losing’s not too hard to master_
> 
> _though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster._
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

 

A lot happens in the middle. Sherlock gets quite famous, John complains about being called a _confirmed bachelor_ , the world keeps turning and they solve cases, save lives. It’s all very, very good. John has some girlfriends, but they’re merely a distraction, because for some insane reason John always seems to choose him over them and their female genitalia.

  
Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever be able to have _this._ Mycroft makes stupid insinuations and tells him not to get involved because _caring isn’t an advantage, little brother_ , and then of course, there’s Irene Adler who keeps texting him to _grow up and tell him._ (He can’t, it’s too huge of a risk, too many variables, and no safety net)

But then, of course, the Fall. Moriarty rises like a wave from the ocean, threatening to obliterate everything Sherlock has worked for, all of the precious things he thought were safe. But none of them are really safe, are they, because the balance is precarious and the world is dangerous and good things simply don’t last.

He has to pretend to be dead for two years. It’s a nasty business, but he has no choice. There were snipers trained on the only people he cared about in the world (with the exception of Mycroft, he thinks reluctantly) and jumping from the roof was the only plausible option. He had to lie to John, had to hear his broken voice call him his _friend_ and Sherlock didn’t think hearts could actually break, but that’s _exactly_ what it felt like.

People die under his hands. Bad people, sure, but they’re still people, and Sherlock has never really _done_ this before, and now he’s a murderer. It’s odd, being the one to carry the gun. This was usually John’s department. Along for the ride, a warm, familiar presence next to him, protective and hovering. It should have been suffocating, but it never was. It was nice, to know that John would step in front of him when he thought he was being threatened, or cock his gun and try to stare down criminals when they said things like _I’m gonna fuck you up, you shit!_

He breaks his arm twice, and loses a tooth.  He misses John and misses him and _misses_ him and he tries to delete him because he’s so _distracting_ – but he can’t. He dreams about him at night, curled under scratchy bedsheets in cheap hotels or camped in a tent in some obscure jungle in Algeria. Dreams about shared cups of tea, the sound of his laughter, what he would sound like if Sherlock got on knees and sucked him down.

Fantasies are all he has, so he doesn’t set any restrictions for himself this time around. Allows himself to imagine those things freely – just this once. Holding hands in Regents’ Park, kisses beside the fireplace, hearts and flowers and all that sentimental nonsense people are so obsessed with. When he goes back (if he goes back) maybe, just maybe, he could tell him. I love you, I loved you the moment I saw you, and I’m sorry about this whole pretending-to-be-dead business, but he had a sniper on you, and I couldn’t just let you die, could I?

  
It’s a ridiculous idea, but it might just work.

He hides inside a ditch with a splint around his shin, and thinks about John carding his fingers through his hair, kissing him softly, waking up next to each other.  Making love in morning sunlight, achingly slow and gentle, until they’re both moaning each other’s names. Alone was supposed to protect him. He’s not so sure anymore.

Then there’s that torture business, of course. Sherlock drifts off to his mind palace, even as he’s being hit in the abdomen with a lead pipe. At some point in time the man who’s torturing him stops for a second, licks a stripe up his neck, runs a palm down his thigh and Sherlock freezes, he hadn’t deduced this, surely –

It doesn’t happen. It could’ve. Mycroft arrives before that.

***

He comes back, and things have changed.

Mycroft smiles at him knowingly and mocks him, but it doesn’t match his eyes. They’ve never been like _that_ before, so it’s not as though Mycroft can offer him a sympathetic hug or an affectionate word. They both stumble over their sentences, say things that sound like one thing and mean another. Sherlock stares at the picture of Mary Morstan, and feels a funny twinge in his gut.

He wills himself to feel happy for John. He’s moved on. That’s what people do, don’t they? ~~Leave a note~~. He mourned, did his time, found a willing woman, (copulated with her, obviously), and now they’re engaged. It’s what most middle-aged men seek, really. It’s a linear progression of events. Sherlock’s offerings were a young man’s game, and now John’s put the past behind himself. Sherlock is just a distant recollection.

What had he expected? That there would a perfect Sherlock-shaped gap in John’s life, and once he returned, all he had to do was simply fit into it again? There might have been, for the first few months, but there’s new skin stretched over it now. John probably doesn’t have any need for him anymore. Adventure and excitement are all very good, but he supposes John only wants normalcy after all that madness. Mary Morstan probably doesn’t keep a jar of human eyeballs in her refrigerator, must not have a history of substance abuse, presumably doesn’t list the most dangerous, untraceable poisons over the breakfast table. 

  
And of course, Sherlock adds bitterly, she’s a woman, and John was always going to settle down with one of those.

***

Sherlock thinks John will never forgive him, but the man has always had a way of surprising him.  
Yes, perhaps he was sort of forced into doing it, what with the whole ticking time bomb thing, and Sherlock was a bit of an arsehole about it, but it’s been two long years and the thought that it was all for nothing, that he’d have to live a John-less life from now on – is too much to bear. So he lies and plays a trick. Sherlock is supposed to be good at those.

***

The idea burns bright and awful in his chest, and then it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it.

  
“I could teach you,” he tells John, focusing on the teabag bobbing on the surface of his cup. His cheeks are burning, why would he do this to himself?

John looks up from the notepad in his hand, blinks at him from his armchair.  “What?”

“Dancing lessons,” Sherlock mumbles, more to himself than to John. “I, er. I could teach you, if you’d like.”

John looks sceptically at him, his mouth slightly tipped up as if waiting for a punchline. Sherlock rolls his eyes, takes the mugs and brings them over to John. “I know how to dance. I’m quite good at it, if you must know. Instead of paying an obscene amount of money to these idiots for lessons, I could teach you.”

“You…” John continues to frown at him and Sherlock doesn’t know if he wants to lob something at his head or kiss him. He sighs, sits across from him, crosses one leg over the other.

“Yes, John. I took lessons as a child. Ballet, if you must know. And ballroom dancing. I’m an excellent waltzer, so you needn’t worry about that. Mary will be very…” he clears his throat and makes a grab for the mug, gulps down a large amount of scalding tea before he can finish that sentence. “- happy. With the results.”

John grins widely at him, eyes bright and mischievous. _Oh._ Sherlock’s breath falters.

“ _Ballet_? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

It’s an awful idea, of course. Not because Sherlock isn’t a good teacher. (Seeing John at the wedding, dancing with Mary, had certainly proved that he’d taught him well. He hadn’t thought he’d feel so unexpectantly bitter at the sight) Mostly because Sherlock had overestimated how well he’d be able to hide his reaction to John holding him close, one hand at his hip and the other curled in his.

Curtains closed, late afternoon sunlight filtering through the thick curtains. He’d had to move some furniture to make more space, had to borrow Mrs Hudson’s speakers for the music. John doesn’t know (yet) that the piece they are currently waltzing to was composed by him.

(A freezing winter night, Sherlock was curled up under a flea-bitten blanket in an inn in Moscow. The paper was flimsy, he had no violin, just a blunt pencil. John was in his head, as always, and Sherlock couldn’t stand it. He’d thought composing something would work, would exorcise his ghost, but it only made it worse)

“Is this alright?” John asks, looks up at him.  A one, a two, a three, a four. He’d stepped on his toes consistently for the first hour. But he’d improved since then. Vastly.

“Acceptable,” Sherlock murmurs. “It’ll be easier during your wedding, considering Mary isn’t six feet tall.”

“Yeah, I think my neck has a crick in it from looking up at you for so long.”

Sherlock smiles, can’t help it. John’s smaller hand is warm in his own, and the grip at his waist is lovely. Sherlock’s fingers curl around his shoulder, and he really shouldn’t have suggested this.  
It isn’t fair to John, he thinks this is all very platonic, something _mates_ do, and all the while all Sherlock can think of is pressing himself closer, placing his cheek on top of his head and slowing down the rhythm of the music. Holding each other and swaying, that would be nice. Sherlock would lead (it just makes more sense that way, he’s so much taller than John), if this was _their –_ what? No. That is a forbidden line of thought, absolutely ludicrous. His affection for John makes him disgustingly pathetic.

“Alright, then, can you manage the dip?” he asks, loudly, loud enough to clear the filth in his head.

That had been disastrous the first few times. They’d tried it both ways, Sherlock had been dropped when he was the one being dipped, and John just couldn’t manage to trust Sherlock and would become shifty and rigid each time Sherlock attempted to do it to him.

“Er - which way?”

“Dip me. You need to practice that way, after all. I think you’ll do spectacularly.” Sherlock smirks, because he’s teasing. (not really, he likes being dipped by John, even though he has a small lump on the back of his head from falling so many times) This is torment, he realises. Actual torture that he’s brought upon himself. He should have just told John to go to some awful studio in Soho. This will be over soon and Sherlock will once again be left with John’s empty armchair.

“Ok - let’s do it then,” John smiles widely, and then they go through the easier part, the back-forth, and then the pause, John’s hand slips down his waist, Sherlock bends backwards – and –

He’s not sure how it happens, he must have tripped, or stepped on John’s toes, or John must have done something equally ridiculous, but he loses his balance. He makes a surprised yelp, reaches for the front of John’s jumper, and instead of going sprawling on the ground, he hangs on to him for dear life. John grabs his waist, tries to stop him from crashing into the wood (again) –  

  
“Shit!” he exclaims.

Oh.  

Sherlock swallows, looks up at John and feels everything heat up uncomfortably. John’s face is so close all Sherlock would have to do is tip his chin and they’d be -

(don’t think about that, you _idiot._ )

But he’s right _there._ Sherlock feels everything still for those precious few seconds, and John has never looked at him so intensely before, his gaze has never flicked down slowly from his mouth to his throat and back up to reach his eyes again. John’s lips part, and it feels like he’s about to say something, something important.  If he tried, Sherlock could just – he could imagine that John’s entire world was shifting (just like his, when he’d walked into the lab) – but the spell breaks.

“Sorry -“

“You okay?”

They pause, stare at each other. Sherlock can feel his heart thudding in his ears, heat creeping up the back of his neck, John’s vice-like grip at his waist. He must be quite heavy for John, how is he managing to hold him so securely?

“I’ll just -“ he gently lifts him back up, and they disentangle from each other. The atmosphere is suddenly imbued with an awful awkwardness, and Sherlock would prefer if the ground simply opened up and swallowed him down. He looks at his feet, ruffles the back of his head uncomfortably. It must make his curls stick up unattractively.

“That was -“

“Another disaster,” John laughs, sounding odd. “It’s because of your height, you giant.”

He looks up at John, cheeks flushed, who is staring at him with wide eyes and a brilliantly fake smile on his face.  Ah. Humour. Trying to pass it off as a joke. Obviously.

“John -“

“I should go,” he suddenly says, looking at his watch but clearly not registering the time. “Let’s er… continue this – tomorrow?”

“No need, you’ve managed quite well until that bit, I’m sure Mary’s female - er. Smaller body. Will be easier to dip.” He smooths down his shirt. His hands are shaking.

John nods sharply. “Right. Yeah. Okay. I’ll, uh, get out of your hair then.”

John doesn’t even wait for his response. He simply brushes past him, grabs his keys and coat and shuts the door behind him.

Sherlock is left with an empty flat and a hollow feeling in his gut.

***

Once he had thought it would be an excellent idea to turn up at their flat when he was doped up on painkillers after being punched in the jaw by a kidnapper he’d been chasing.  
He doesn’t remember much. John’s face, worried and pale, the amused tilt of Mary’s mouth. Someone pushing a mug of hot tea into his hands, him pulling down John by his t-shirt and whispering something in his ear. John and Mary leading him to their guest bedroom and putting him to sleep.

“Sherlock,” Mary had said, swiping her hand into his hair. Where was John? Why’d he left him here? He’d come to see _him,_ after all. “If you want to see John, you can do it sober, yeah?”

He _is_ sober. Sort of. Mary must think he’s - oh. Right. With his history, it’s not much of a leap.

Waking up, creeping to the living room and listening to them talk to each other in their kitchen, making breakfast together. John whisking eggs, Mary putting on the kettle.

It’s hell to watch. They move around each other with such practiced comfort. John’s hand brushes her back, her waist, swipes absent kisses on her face. Jealousy flares up in his gut, twists and twists. He feels like an outsider on the periphery of something intensely personal. He is intruding. He doesn’t belong here, in this happy (normal) domestic space, with the cream-coloured walls and cut flowers in vases. (Does John?)

“He misses you, you know. That’s why he’s here.” They’re talking about him. Interesting. He leans closer to listen.

“Sherlock? No. No, he doesn’t… he doesn’t feel things that way. I mean. I dunno, maybe. He’s being a twit, is all.”

“John…”

“Forget it. Let’s just make him some breakfast, I doubt he’s been eating properly, he’s lost weight, did you notice? God, he just refuses to take care of himself. He could have broken his ribs last night.”

Better, that. For John to think he’s a machine. He’s made it clear before, used that very word. Better for him to think he really _doesn’t_ feel things “that way”. Makes it easier to hide.

***

He writes a Best Man speech because John asks him to, because he calls him his “best friend” in a way that seemed a bit as though he was saying something else. These days it is always difficult to tell what John actually means.

He takes off his coat and goes to church, and stands by and watches as John promises himself to somebody else. He’d got whipped and electrified in Siberia, but honestly, it doesn’t even come _close_ to this. He almost tells him, but he pins Mary’s name along with his - the _two_ people who love you most in the world - because he’s lost his chance.  
Molly and Lestrade look at him almost pityingly when he speaks about John (the depth and complexity of his jumpers, that thing with the peas) - and what do they even know? He’s been excellent at hiding it so far, and he’ll keep hiding it, because that’s what he’s expected to do. Because he doesn’t have a choice.

He is someone else’s John now, and that’s alright. Sherlock can live with it. Mary isn’t too much of a terrible person, she’s funny, kind and interesting, and doesn’t think Sherlock is a freak. She doesn’t mind John running off with him on cases - she encourages it, actually - she invites him over for weekend dinners (those are awful, with the _wine_ and the _eating,_ but Sherlock sits through them because he gets to see John) and she doesn’t complain about his social skills, thinks he’s clever, tells him so.

_~~Oh Sherlock, neither of us was the first.~~ _

(He doesn’t even care about being John’s first, he would have settled just for being John’s.)

It’s okay. It’s not perfect (not the way it used to be), but it’s more than he deserves, so Sherlock takes it and decides to be content.

***

_If you are quite through being lovesick, I have several high-profile cases that could do with your particular brand of expertise. Plenty of legwork involved. Quite a bit of travelling. I’d suggest you go alone._

_MH_

_I’m not lovesick. And send them over._

_SH_

_Of course I’ll go alone._

_SH_

_Don’t be smug. It doesn’t suit you._

_SH_

_Smug is the very last thing I am feeling right now, brother mine._

_MH_

***

When it happens again, they’re both roaring drunk.

John comes to 221B late at night, it’s almost past midnight. Sherlock hasn’t seen him for a month. They used to text frequently, but recently there have only been a handful of short sentences sent to each other.

_Got a case on?_

_Yes.- SH_

_Can I join?_

_I’m in Bristol. Talk later. - SH_

_Will you be free tomorrow evening? - SH_

_Can’t, Mary and I have a thing._

_Greg’s having that dinner party at his place. Probably going to be depressing. Should we go?_

_You and Mary carry on. I’ve got a case - SH_

So on, so forth. Sherlock stopped trying after a while, deciding that if John really wanted to come see him, he knew where to find him. So he is surprised to find him on the other side of the door, grinning lazily and holding up a bottle of scotch.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, takes the bottle from him and makes an appropriate impressed noise. “Are we celebrating something?” he asks, moving into the kitchen with the bottle. Brings down two glass tumblers. When he returns to the living room, John is already stretched out on his armchair, in front of the fire. His coat hangs behind the door. It’s so familiar it _hurts._

“Lovely,” John comments, as Sherlock puts down the tumbler and the bottle. “No, I just reckoned I should come to see you… been a while hasn’t it?”

Sherlock hums, leans back in his chair, lets John pour them both a generous helping. “Yes, I suppose.”

He looks at him more carefully - he’s lost weight, his hair is greyer than usual, he’s been sleeping less. He’s also had a fight with his wife, which is clearly why John is here. Part of him, a nasty, bitter part of him is a little happy. This is where John chooses to be, rather than his own home. That must mean something, right? _Not really,_ the nasty voice in his head says. _He’ll stay for a while and go back to that wife of his._

“So, anything interesting on?” John hands him his tumbler.

Their conversation continues like that for a while, odd and stilted. Alcohol gets them to loosen their tongues, and it’s just like their stag night, all over again. Sherlock had tried to bury it, because it had been lovely, but afterwards John had _left._ He’d had him, slumped in his chair, pliant and warm and so gorgeous, then on one knee with his hand on Sherlock’s and _I don’t mind_ – what was that even supposed to mean?

John tells him about his fight, it was just something stupid and trivial that had snowballed, and Sherlock tells John about the most _amazing_ beheading he saw in Brighton, and John laughs, that clear laugh of his that settles in Sherlock’s chest, warm and golden and beautiful.

“Christ, I’m seeing double,” John slurs, eyes narrowed as if he isn’t sure how many Sherlocks are sitting in front of him.

“Hmm,” Sherlock murmurs back. The bottle is empty on the coffee table. “You should stay the night.”

John giggles. “Are you propositioning me, Holmes?”

Sherlock widens his eyes, the haze of drunkenness clears for a second. That’s… that’s not. Is that a joke? Or is he beings serious? He’s not propositioning him. Unless. Unless John wanted to…?

“Just joking,” John hurriedly corrects. “Jesus, I _am_ drunk…”

Sherlock ignores the stab of disappointment. God, what was he thinking? Of _course_ John wouldn’t want that, he’s a heterosexual man with a wife _-_ a _pregnant_ wife, of all things.

“Yes, exactly. You can’t go home like this,” Sherlock stands up then, grabs John’s wrist and tugs him up. They both sway, hold on to each other for support. John’s face blurs and stretches. “Stay here with me, tonight.” It sounds like a plea.

“With you?” John leans forward and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s losing his balance. Sherlock quickly wraps an arm around his waist, and oh. This is hugging. They’re hugging. Sort of. He could just stand like this, wrap his arms around John and hold him close and never let go.

“I’d go anywhere with you, you know.”

“Good to know,” Sherlock says quietly, and tries to manoeuvre them both so that they’re side by side. “Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?”

Is it wrong, to want it? To lie down next to John? It’s been so long since they’ve done this, Sherlock has missed it. Sherlock has missed _John,_ so much. Missed the warmth of his body next to him, missed him and his stupid khaki trousers, his stupid blue-eyed smile. What was it, that Moriarty had said? That John was his pet? If anyone was the pet, it was Sherlock, coming when called, curling up at his side and being happy with scraps, dropping things at his feet and looking up at him expectantly, waiting for a word of praise, a pat on the head.

“Yes, alright,” John agrees, and Sherlock trudges both of them to his bedroom.

When they reach the bedroom, they both fall down on top of the covers unceremoniously. They’re a tangle of limbs, and the both of them giggle as they detangle arms and legs.  Sherlock is laughing, trying to lift up the quilt to cover them both, when suddenly, John cups a hand around his cheek and presses his mouth against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock freezes.

His heart must have stopped beating, because there is only ringing silence inside his head. John’s lips are a little chapped, and he tastes like scotch and he smells like a new kind of detergent but that cologne is still the same, and are they really _kissing_?

It’s over far too soon, John pulls away, and his smile is lazy and indulgent, his eyes unfocused, but fond. They’re both lying down on their sides, looking at each other.  
Sherlock’s fingers still curled around the quilt, the both of them in shirts and trousers.

“Don’t think I’ve ever told you,” John says softly. “But you’re really, really, beautiful.”

And with that, John passes out.

Sherlock presses his fingers to his mouth, closes his eyes, tries to retain the feeling for as long as he can. He immediately stores the memory in his mind palace. He’s not foolish enough to think this will change anything, even in his drunken state. It doesn’t mean anything. John will wake up and not remember this, he’ll go back to his wife, things will be normal again. But Sherlock will remember. Sherlock will remember that John kissed him and called him beautiful, and that’s alright.

He shifts closer to John, tucks his head under his chin. In his sleep, John’s arm comes to rest over his hip, pulls him closer. Sherlock breathes in leisurely, he’s never been allowed to be so close, close enough to smell him, press his nose against his throat. The warmth of John’s hand bleeds through his trousers. Sherlock wishes he could prise his ribs apart and settle there: that would be the only way he could ever feel close enough.  
He wants to hold him, (properly, not that awful one armed hug at the wedding) wants to take his hand in his and kiss each of his fingertips, one by one.

Sherlock wants to share a bed with him without the sure knowledge that he’ll be gone the next day.

He falls asleep, curls around John’s body, dreams about doing so much more.

***

“ _Have you ever swung really high on a swing, like - super high. You know, so high you feel like you’ll just go straight over the top? But you don’t. You keep holding on to the chains and you’re flying backwards, and you feel kind of sick, but a good sick. You gut feels all… whooshy. And you’re really uncertain, because it’s all happening so fast, but it’s great, you know, that’s why you keep swinging. You don’t want it to stop.”_

_Sherlock stares at him from where he’s sitting on that awful prison cot. He doesn’t know why John is talking about being sick, not when he feels ready to vomit all over him. John is on the floor, kneeling, head tipped towards him. They both reek of whisky. Never thought he’d see the day where he and John were thrown into the drunk tank like common criminals._

_“Maybe.” He doesn’t even remember what John said._

_“Yeah. Well. That’s how I feel when I’m around you. All the time.”_

***

Mary _was_ nice, of course, but what about that part she lied about and hid away? That part about how she was an assassin, a killer for hire, practically a murderer. Sherlock could fan John’s anger and resentment and bitterness, could take the chance and pull John towards him again. John would be all his again, the temptation is almost overwhelming. John wants adrenaline? The rush of the chase? Excitement? Adventure? Sherlock can give him all of that, and more. Sherlock would die for him, would come back to _life_ for this man, would Mary do that?  

But he doesn’t. He still doesn’t know why. Probably because John deserves better than him, and Sherlock can’t give him the things he needs (sex with a female person). Because this is what he actually wants (white picket fence, two lovely children, weekends at the park) and Sherlock is not meant for that kind of life. Sherlock brings death and destruction and lays waste to mostly everything in his path – people who associate with him rarely come away unscathed and isn’t John a prime example of that?

  
And Mary, oh, Mary is better at pretending to be someone else that he is. John can forgive her because it’s the right (easy) thing to do.

 _Because you chose_   _her._

~~(not me)~~

***

Soon afterwards, there is an even worse man then Moriarty, with eyes that are not so much dead as they are empty. There is a Christmas he’ll never forget, a gunshot so loud it’ll be etched into his memory.

  
John’s wide eyes, the shocked ‘O’ of his mouth. A handshake. _I_ love _you_ right on the tip of his tongue but never really being released into the air. (choices have been made, lines have been drawn. John is on the other side, married, and he is here, alone, always alone.) Enough drugs to induce a coma, hopefully something deeper and more permanent  (he hadn’t really cared, at that point. He only had six months left to live, and he was never going to see John again. There was hardly any doubt in his mind that _anything_ would be preferable to that) a Victorian fantasy, but then he’s back on the ground, and the world starts spinning again.

_~~And what do we say about coincidences?~~ _

_~~The universe is rarely so lazy.~~ _

Sherlock had always imagined he’d go out either in a blaze of glory or in a hospital bed, chock-full of drugs and choking on his own vomit.

He’s not even given the luxury of choosing when and where it happens, but as usual, it’s all fine.

(It really isn’t.)

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s dangerously close to a confession, Sherlock has to rein it in before his treacherous mouth tumbles out any more damning words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you Chemical_Defect, my friend and beta!
> 
> TW: brief description of a mild panic attack

 

 

 

> :V: and the soul comes joyful to the eye
> 
> _Spinning like a ghost_  
>  _on the bottom of a_  
>  _top,_
> 
> _I’m haunted by all_  
>  _the space that I_  
>  _will live without_  
>  _you._

* * *

 

 

There’s a memory that Sherlock takes out from time to time, a distant one. 

It’s the night they first met, years and years and years ago. It seems like something that happened to him in a different life. Him and John, stumbling home like teenagers, drunk on red wine and full of dim sum. There’d been a spot of soy sauce on John’s mouth all night, Sherlock couldn’t get it out of his head, it bothered him all so thoroughly until John took mercy on him and licked it away with that pale pink tongue of his.

He’d wanted to impress him so badly, wanted to make sure that this wonderful man would stay. Sherlock had seen him, and his heart had dropped down to his feet and want had filled him up with a steady, thrumming energy. Sherlock had to be brilliant, he had to be absolutely brilliant, or John might just leave, and they’d only just met, (and he’d shot a man for him!) Sherlock would do anything to prevent that from happening.

They’d spoken for hours in front of the fireplace, John on the armchair that soon after became _his._ Surrounded by unopened boxes and a great deal of rubbish, Billy’s empty eyed glare on them both. John wasn’t dull enough to ask him questions about his family or where he’d got his bachelor degree (or he’d simply looked at Sherlock and come to his own deductions: public school/Oxford/upper class/posh) but he did want to know why there was a pair of headphones on the mounted bison, and how Sherlock could tell that a restaurant was good by looking at the doorknob.

He remembers getting up to make them both some tea (just for today, it wouldn’t do for this to become a habit, he was only being _nice_ ) but when he came back, John had already fallen asleep, his head tipped to one side, mouth lolling open. Sherlock stood there, staring, for what seemed like hours.  The firelight threw shadows on his face, smudges of black under the hollows of his eyes, the base of his throat.  

He might have been just a little bit in love, then. He _really_ shouldn’t have told him he was married to his work (or perhaps it had been for the best. Sherlock has never been good at reading people when they were…flirting? He didn’t know _what_ that was, he could have been mistaken, might have mucked  things up even more).

He’d rummaged in his bedroom until he found an extra blanket, then threw it over him, tucked it under his chin. Sat down in the opposite chair and drank both mugs of tea.

John had woken up early the next morning, startled a bit when he saw Sherlock calmly staring at him from the opposite chair. He groaned, because obviously his neck and his shoulder were in pain, and slurred “Good morning” to him.

Then he’d got up and stretched, thanked him for the blanket, taken a piss in _their_ bathroom and brushed his teeth.

“So,” Sherlock had said, when he returned, sounding much more collected than he felt. John, still a little achy, sat down on the armchair, rotating his shoulder and looking at him expectantly. “is everything to your liking? I mean. Do you. Are you.” He shook his head, tried to start again. “If you like the flat, I suggest we sign-“

John was grinning at him. A crooked, mischievous smile that somehow managed to suck all the air out of his chest. Did he know he was doing that? Or was it entirely subconscious?

“The flat is great, but I think we’ll need to discuss how many body parts you can stuff into the fridge at some point. I mean, there’s no food in there. What do you even eat?  There’s some damp in the upstairs bedroom, I think we should get that fixed. The pipes are a bit creaky, and the bills you’ve stabbed into the mantelpiece with your jackknife are clearly indicating you’re going to lose the electricity if you don’t pay them in two days.” His grin widened and leaned back in his chair, looking comfortable and cosy and absolutely in place. “But I have a feeling you’re never going to let me get bored, so yeah. I’m staying. Do you like eggs?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “Eggs?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll make some breakfast,” he replied, and proceeded to do just that.

Scrambled eggs, with burnt bits. Not excellent. Still delicious.

***

Sherlock doesn’t know why it crosses his mind now.

Now, when he has a much more different version of John Watson bent over against his chest, in his arms. How ironic that the one time he’s allowed to hold John like this is when he’s grieving over his dead wife. (a fresh wave of guilt hits him, cold and unforgiving)

They’re both different now, actually. Older, more careworn, broken down, hollowed out.  
There are so many secrets between the two of them, so many things left unsaid. It’s been years since they’ve spoken properly, as they used to. Or did they ever _talk_? Not about murder or science or that nonsense, but about the things that mattered?

They hadn’t.  They never had, and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with this knowledge. He doesn’t know how to fix things. He used to think he could fix anything.  
John’s offence after Sherlock told him he didn’t have friends?  
Just tell him the truth, for once. (For the only time)  
Their uneasy relationship after he had pretended to jump off a building? Easy, trick the man into forgiving him.  
Wife who’s secretly an assassin? Not as easy, but still doable: show them the best parts of each other, show them that you can still forgive the mistakes someone makes if you love them enough. _Amor vincit_ _o_ _mnia._ What a load of rubbish.

Sherlock swallows past the hard lump in his throat and cups his hand behind John’s nape, curls the other around his bicep and presses his nose into his hair. He might be being selfish, he doesn’t know. They’ve never held each other like that, he’s never had the privilege of having him so close. He closes his eyes and the scent is exactly as he had imagined it.  
Before you know it, hmm?  
Well, John had certainly been right about that one.  
Sherlock never told him, and he never can, not now, when John is raw and broken and aching from sadness, not ever, because Mary meant something to him in a way Sherlock never will (and God, he can’t compete with a dead woman, and then he hates himself a little for thinking that way, but just this once, Sherlock wishes he could be selfish, wishes he could ask John how he could be so blind, he thought it had always been a little obvious, Mycroft had always told him so - apparently the depth of his devotion had always been shining through his cracks like an annoying beacon.

_Even you?_

Yes, John, even me. Especially me. Even after all these years, how could you still ask me that? Haven’t I proved it enough to you? Just because I’m not actively fucking Irene Adler, does that make me somehow… less human?

Only another human being could wish to suck out all of your sadness, keep it inside themselves.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice what John is telling him: “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry Sherlock, God, what was I _thinking -“_

“John?” he asks questioningly, pulls back just a little bit so he can look down at him. John looks up, and his eyes are red, tears on his face. Sherlock’s hand is now somehow buried in the back of his head, he doesn’t know how that happened.

“I’m sorry,” John sobs again, and this time they’re looking right at each other. It’s clearly directed at him, but… why?

“What for?” he asks. John gapes.

“Sherlock, I - how can you ask me that? Jesus. Jesus Christ,” he steps away – _no –_

away from his embrace. Sherlock stands there, unsure of what to do next. Did he say something wrong?  John scrapes his hands over his face, cups them over his mouth, shaking his head.

“John, what -“

“I beat you black and blue,” John whispers, and he’s looking down at the floor like as if afraid of saying it to his face.

Oh. That.

Well, truth be told, that hadn’t been entirely pleasant.

But justifiable.

Right?

“You were grieving,” he says automatically. He tries to step forward to hold him again, but John just shakes his head, holds up a palm to stop him.

“Christ, Sherlock, how - how can you even -“ his voice starts rising and he immediately stops, putting a hand over his mouth again, screwing his eyes shut.

You were grieving, he wants to say. You were in a terrible place and you felt betrayed by your best friend. You missed your wife and you’ve always had anger issues, and I was being such a shit friend, you were worried, you were frightened, it’s alright, it –

“It’s _not_ alright, what I did,” John tells him, and he hadn’t said all of that out loud, had he? He doesn’t think so.

“John -“

“No, God, for once in your life, will you just _listen._ ”

Hadn’t Sherlock been listening all this while? John telling him he wasn’t complete as a human being, John flying by years and years of pining and asking him odd questions regarding his relationship with Irene Adler (I’m gay, John, fucking hell, I’m _gay._ ) John calling him a posh boy, that was odder. Hadn’t he sat and listened to all of it? Not tried to argue with John as he really, really wanted to?

He straightens up, keeps quiet, clasps his hands behind his back and looks at John expectantly.

“What I did,” John continues, voice shaking. His eyes are directly trained on his, wide and still swimming just a little bit with tears. “What I did to you, it was horrible. It makes me a horrible person for doing it and I am _not_ asking for forgiveness, because what I did was unforgivable. I beat you, kicked you, threw you on the ground and kicked you till you were _bleeding, -_ “ he stops for a second, breathes between his teeth before soldiering on. “And I blamed you… I blamed you-“

“John,” Sherlock says, feeling a little panicked. “John, you don’t have to -“

“I _need_ to,” he insists. “Sherlock, I blamed you for -“ he swallows. “for Mary’s death and I had no right. No right to say that to you. You did _not_ cause her death, it was _not_ your fault. I had no right to push you out of my life as if you didn’t matter. You were – are – the one constant in my entire life and I threw you out as if all of those years we had together – counted for nothing.”

Sherlock feels a hard lump in his throat, something pricking at his eyes.

“God, God, this is difficult,” John exhales roughly and sinks down into his armchair, pulls his hair back from his forehead. It falls back in thin grey wisps. “Mary told you to go to hell, and you did, just for me - even after everything I did. I don’t know how I could have just ignored all of that. I was selfish. I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I didn’t see that you too, were grieving. You’d lost a friend as well. And I left my cane there – _fuck,_ that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I’m going to regret so many things, Sherlock. I’m going to regret them forever, but most of all I will regret hurting you, the one person who stuck by me even when I was being an arsehole.”

He seems to have finished now. He’s panting softly, and before Sherlock can say anything, he’s cupping his face in his hands, bending over. Sobbing. More now than ever.

Sherlock, feeling numb, moves towards him and falls to the floor, practically in supplication. Curves his hands around John’s knees. “John. John, look at me.”

John shakes his head. “I can’t, I can’t.”

“Please,” Sherlock begs, and pulls his hands away from his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, his lips dry, Sherlock’s heart squeezes in his chest.

“I forgive you,” he says firmly. “Maybe what you did was horrible. I don’t know. I’m not the best judge of morality, never have been, and maybe you had no right to pin your wife’s death on me. I don’t know that either. But this is my right: telling you that I forgive you.”

“Sherlock,” John murmurs weakly. His hands are cold in Sherlock’s grasp, but they twist together. “I don’t deserve -“

“None of us know what we deserve,” he finishes for him. “How could we? Mary didn’t deserve to die. I didn’t deserve to get tortured in Serbia. Moriarty might not have even deserved to get his brain shot out. These are things that happened, despite of it. Bad things and good things happen to people who _least deserve it._ Everything, everything, is a matter of chance - the universe is far too chaotic for there to be any special connections. And John, I -“ he has to compose himself a bit before he continues. “I’ve recently been told that opportunities can slip past before you know it. So here I am, making use of the opportunity. I forgive you. I’ll forgive you a thousand times. I’ll say it a thousand times, as long as you need until you believe it. Life is far too short to dwell on the past, and we’ve wasted enough time as it is. _”_

It’s dangerously close to a confession, Sherlock has to rein it in before his treacherous mouth tumbles out any more damning words.

John shakes his head like he can’t believe it. And then slowly, he’s lifting his hands, pulling them out of Sherlock’s grasp and cupping them around his face. “God, how did you get so wise, you mad, mad, man?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Time makes wise men of us all, John.”

***

“I can’t believe we never celebrated your birthday,” John tells him quietly when they’re putting on their coats to go outside.

Sherlock smiles slightly. “I never liked a big fuss.”

John rolls his eyes. “You’re the most dramatic person I’ve ever met, you _love_ a big fuss.”

He might have, if they’d done something like that. He briefly imagines John in a birthday hat, crouching behind him and whispering _make a wish_ in his ear, hands on his shoulders, waiting for him to blow out the candles.

“This is fine,” he says, because it is. Quiet, just the two of them, sitting across from each other, sharing a slice of cake. Yes, their conversations will be more careful now, more deliberate. They’ll probably be walking on eggshells around each other for a while, because they’re only human and they’ve hurt each other so much, over and over again. After all, they’re both a far cry from those clueless idiots who met at Bart’s years ago, not quite young men anymore.

John smiles, and it’s careful, but just a little bit hopeful.

***

John doesn’t go home after they’ve both eaten their fill of cake. Instead, he returns with Sherlock to Baker Street. He still has a few hours before he has to pick Rosie up from Molly’s, and that he decides to come back with him fills Sherlock with warmth.

He busies himself in the kitchen for a few minutes, because he really needs some tea (he needs something stronger, but he _promised,_ so he’ll have to settle with the miniscule amount of stimulating caffeine the tea offers.) But by the time he comes out of the kitchen, John isn’t there. Did John leave? He must have left. Sherlock must have done something wrong, God he’s _such_ an idiot, and things were just starting to get better -

He doesn’t think to look in John’s old bedroom, so of course he’s there.

***

“John?” Sherlock stands at the doorway, unsure of whether he’s allowed to enter. He used to come here sometimes, after he came back and John wasn’t living with him anymore, (was cohabiting with Mary, then.) Lie down, face first in the mattress and try to sniff out the remnants of his scent. Now they’re long since faded, the closet is empty, the windows closed.

John’s sitting on the edge of his bed, hands in his lap, looking down. His face tips up when he sees Sherlock. “Hey,” he says softly. “You made tea?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says slowly. “Can I come in?”

“Of course you can, it’s your flat.” John beckons him inside.

He steps in, puts the cups down on the nightstand carefully. “Why are you…”

“There are sheets on the bed,” John tells him. “Has Mrs. Hudson been dusting?”

“Hmm, every day.” Sherlock sits down next to him, and the both of them are silent for a while. The tea cools gradually behind them.

“I see her sometimes,” John suddenly says. He isn’t looking at Sherlock. Instead he focuses on a point somewhere in front of them. “Not a ghost. Well. I don’t think so. I’m not being haunted by my dead wife. I think she’s some weird manifestation of my subconscious, I don’t know. Whatever. She just pops up.”

He must be able to feel Sherlock’s panic (worry) because he turns to him with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes and says, “I’m not mad or anything. I know it sounds crazy. But she’s there. All the time. Won’t leave me and my head alone.”

Sherlock doesn’t think he’s mad. He would have noticed the signs of insanity, had John been exhibiting them. No, he’s more worried about this impending conversation about Mary. Sherlock doesn’t know how to do it. He’s been pretending so long, his mouth practically aches with the platitudes he’s given John these past few years, regarding Mary. He’d defended her and helped her and saved her and given John to her, (because it’s what John wanted) all tied up in a pretty little bow and God, yes, they’d been friends and yes, he _did_ miss her, and he still feels so guilty about her death, but there always was that unspoken line between the two of them.

_~~You got to have him, and I didn’t.~~ _

He knows John isn’t some _thing_ to fight over, he’s so much more precious than that, and that’s why he’d stayed so silent.

It hurts though. He’s a selfish bastard but it _hurts._

“What does she say?” he asks.

“Mostly it’s just her telling me to get my head out of my arse,” John jokes weakly.

Sherlock frowns. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

John sighs, like he’s trying to resign himself of something, and shakes his head slowly. “Never mind,” he decides. “She expects too much from me. I wish I was the man she thought I was. The father she hoped I would be. God, even after death I’m just disappointing her…”

Sherlock raises his hand, and before he thinks better of it, curves it around John’s shoulder. It’s easier now, to touch him, like this. Their previous embrace must have dissolved some strange barrier between the two of them.

“Sherlock,” John suddenly says, as if he’s just remembered something. “Sherlock, what did you mean when you said -“ he shifts out of his grasp and turns his body to face him, eyes narrowed. “When you said _I didn’t deserve to be tortured in Serbia_? What - what happened in Serbia?”

Oh.

_Oh._

Sherlock had never told him.

That… changes things. He shouldn’t have said that. John must have been carrying his own version of those two years this entire time. Must have been imagining him faffing about in exotic locations, being heroic and adventurous. Dramatic.

“You know I was there to take down Moriarty’s network,” he explains. Better to do this expediently, get it all out. He’s so tired of secrets. “I got caught. The man who caught me decided I might have important information and therefore too valuable to kill immediately, so he tried to torture the information out of me. You know the usual, whips and chains and the occasional waterboarding.  Mycroft came and extracted me before things got too… messy.”

John’s face has turned two shades paler. He looks as though he’s seen a ghost, eyes wide, lips parted. “Sherlock...” he whispers. “You never told me, oh _God-_ you came to see me at that restaurant and I - oh Christ, what am I, I’ve always done this, haven’t I? Jesus, how can you even stand to be in a room with me?”

John hyperventilates, start apologising, over and over and over again, and Sherlock feels helpless, doesn’t know how to say it’s okay, it was years ago, they’ve both got it over with, he’s _forgiven_ John. So he wraps his arms around John and pulls him close and presses his mouth against his temple and says, “It’s okay.”

They’re both so touch starved, both of them so aching for comfort, they cling on to each so tightly it’s as if they’re drowning and holding onto a rock to stay afloat. Grief and guilt and loneliness have settled over John so completely that it will take a long time to get rid of it.  
John’s self-loathing probably rivals his own, now.

They’re both quite a bit fucked up, essentially.

It’s not the healthiest of relationships, he thinks as he holds John to his chest.

  
Too dysfunctional, too battered, too much co-dependency written into their DNA. They keep replacing one addiction with another that’s socially acceptable. Keep confusing one feeling for another, they’re stoic and stupid and emotionally awkward but somehow even when things were at their worst they found their way back to each other.

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” John says helplessly.

Sherlock says nothing, sways them back and forth.

***

“Can I stay here tonight?”

“John, this was, and will remain, your home. You can stay here whenever you like.”

A clap on the shoulder, John’s grateful eyes, the cautious edge of his smile. Sherlock wants to kiss him.

***

Rosie, delightful child that she is, is only too happy to be passed over to Ms Hudson for the night. Mrs Hudson gives him an odd look when she takes her from his arms. She wants to ask, of course. She’s an astute woman, shrewd and clever, observes far more than she lets on. She doesn’t though. She cups his face and smiles warmly at him, tells him to sleep well, and to let her know if they need anything.

***

He brings a blanket and some pillows up to John’s bedroom later that night. John smiles gratefully at him and they fix it up together. Sherlock fluffs John’s pillow the way he likes, props it up at the head of the bed and spreads the covers on top of the mattress. John tuts at his sloppiness (they can’t _all_ be military neat) and fixes the crooked edges.

Suddenly Sherlock can’t breathe. He looks at the bed, and looks at John, and feels like his throat is closing up. It’s the same as before, and this is how it started; but it’s so easy for things to fall back into a predictable pattern.

What if it were to happen again?

What if things got in the way, once more, what if the distance between the two of them was never really crossed, what if he were always going to be like this, standing on the edges and waiting for John to come to him - always waiting, always pining but never _having_?

He feels faint, the familiar tingling in his fingertips, the tightness of his chest.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John steps over to his side immediately, grabs his forearm and forces him down so they can look at each other.

“Nothing,” he says in a rather choked voice. “Nothing, I just -” _I’m afraid you’ll leave again. You came so close to hating me, what if this wasn’t the last time?_

“Hey,” John says softly, and curves a hand around his neck, pushes him down so that Sherlock has to bend his body towards him. It’s a hug. John is hugging him, one arm around his waist. Sherlock breathes in shakily, they stand like that for a while, Sherlock breathes in his scent and wills himself to calm down. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells him, echoing his words.

Maybe, maybe. Sherlock doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’d spent far too much time trying to get it right, and it had all been for nothing.  
It’s too much. John holding him like this, John apologising.

Sherlock is not made for this kind of emotional upheaval, never has been. Suddenly he can hear Culverton’s manic laughter in his voice, and John’s eyes, cold and icy blue (John never looked at him like that) John _walking away from him_ \- that blinding, soul-crushing panic when he’d seen that cane, propped up innocuously against the wall.

Without thinking, Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s shoulders. Mostly because he can, and he’s right there, but also because Sherlock doesn’t know when he’ll be able to get this kind of comfort from him again, if at all. He’s here now, he’d almost slipped through his grasp and things had got so _unbearable,_ but now he’s in his arms, touching him. He crushes John against his body, tucks himself in as far as he can go.

He can feel John still against him, just for a second, before the grip around him tightens. It must be odd for him. Sherlock has never sought this from him before.  
John is only just beginning to realise Sherlock’s vulnerability and it must be difficult to reconcile all the versions of him.

They’re hugging. A proper hug. He can feel John’s compact weight against him, his grey hair tickling his skin.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, you’re shaking. Are you okay?”

Is he? Oh. He hadn’t realised.

John starts to pull away from him, and no, Sherlock doesn’t want that, he wants to stay like this. What if John leaves again? He can’t have that. He’s only just got him back. Not touching John anymore is worsening this. His heart starts racing again, and oh, he feels clammy all over.  
He _hates_ this, hates this loss of control -

“Listen, mate, you’re - okay. Alright. I think you’re having a panic attack. Why don’t we just -“

“I’m sorry,” he says, automatically. It comes out sounding much calmer than he feels. “I don’t know why -“ his chest hurts. He feels dizzy. John is right. This _is_ a panic attack. He’d had them for a while, quite often, after Serbia, but they’d stopped. Something must have triggered them again.

“It’s okay,” John replies, and then he pulls them both backward, until Sherlock can feel the bump as they reach the bed. Somehow John manages to disentangle Sherlock’s lanky body from his and tug him downwards so that his bottom hits the mattress.

John is saying something to him, rubbing his back gently, slowly. It takes Sherlock a few seconds to concentrate and listen. It’s alright, he tells him. Everything’s okay. Breathe. Can you breathe for me? Yeah. Perfect. That’s perfect. Keep doing that. Alright. You’re okay. You’re fine. Safe and sound in Baker Street. I’m right here. All in that soothing doctor voice of his. Reminds him of the time he’d jumped into the Thames (they’d been trailing a suspect in Kingston, it was _for a case_ ) and John had to pull him out. He was spluttering and freezing and talking nonsense, probably going into hypothermic shock. John was rubbing his hands and putting his coat over him, berating him the entire while and asking him if he was alright ever so often between “You utter imbecile” and “don’t you get tired of almost dying every other day?”

It lasts for a good seven minutes, at least. By the time the ringing in his ears has stopped and he can breathe properly again, he feels exhausted.

“I apologise for this,” he says quietly, once he feels a little better and his heart starts stuttering back to normal. He can’t look at John. He keeps his hands on his knees and stares straight ahead, all too aware that they are very close, that John’s palm is still on his back. Sweat dries, tacky and disgusting, on his temples, his hairline. “That was - not. I mean. I hadn’t planned on that.”

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, and his hand moves up to rest at his nape. “Please don’t apologise. Remember when I was dripping snot all over you? You took care of me, then.”

That makes him smile, just a little bit. “Yes, I suppose.”

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” John applies the faintest bit of pressure to the side of his neck, and Sherlock turns to regard him. John’s eyes are wide and concerned, full of familiar worry. Such a far cry from the cold fury with which he had looked at him that day at the hospital. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t know if it’ll ever be enough. I’m sorry for making you feel that way. I’m sorry for that awful letter I wrote. I didn’t mean any of that. I was at my lowest, and I am not proud of the man I was then. I’m sorry for walking out on you, God,that was the worst thing I ever could have done.” He shakes his head. “Mrs Hudson told me, if I didn’t have you, who would I have? She was right. I wish I’d realised it sooner. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock sighs, lets escape a deep breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Tiredly, he tips his head and then he’s resting it on John’s shoulder. Adrenaline from his panic attack still courses through his body sluggishly. He breathes in, slowly.

“It’s okay,” he says, and means it.

 John cups the back of his head, curls his fingers into his hair.

***

He tells him about the snipers, one on all three of them. John looks so surprised, and Sherlock feels terribly sad. John finds it so difficult to believe the depth of Sherlock’s regard for him. He still thinks, after everything, that Sherlock wouldn’t lay down his life for him. He’s done it so many times. How could he still not understand?

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks.

 _Because it wouldn’t have made a difference,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say.

***

Later that night, when Sherlock comes back to John’s bedroom to see if he’s asleep, and ask if he needs anything, his door is open and his bedroom is dark. John calls his name, lifts up a corner of the bedsheet in invitation, mumbles something sleepily to him, something which sounds like “Just come here, you git.”

He doesn’t think about what it means when he slips under the covers, curls up against John, and presses his nose to the back of his neck. Doesn’t wonder if this is allowed, if this is _right,_ if they should, if it’s _normal._ He closes his eyes and breathes, and their fingers twist together above John’s stomach.  Sherlock didn’t think they were capable of giving comfort to one another, like this, not when they’ve both had their hearts broken, not when they’re scraped and bloody and bruised.  
But it works, and he doesn’t want to wonder how.

“I was so afraid I’d lost you,” he whispers, and he’s glad they can’t look at each other because it’s still too painful, too raw. “For good.”

 John’s fingers tighten almost painfully between his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

They lie like that, for a while, neither of them asleep. John can probably feel his heart thudding and thudding against his back.  He breaks the silence.

“After Mary died,” he begins, slowly. Sherlock can feel his hackles rise, a bit. Not because it makes him angry, just nervous. There’s also the soul-twisting guilt. “every time I looked into the mirror, I saw a stranger. I was bitter and resentful and angry, and sometimes, I think, if I’d just reached out to you instead of pushing you away, the grief would have been easier to bear. I’m sorry I called you a liar, that time. God. It was when you needed me the most and all I did was throw those two years in your face. I was so angry about it, because losing you - _thinking_ that I’d lost you - I don’t think I can ever explain what that did to me.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to tell him, so he stays quiet.

“And I didn’t mean it, you know. That thing I said about you not being complete as a human being. You’re the most… human person I’ve ever known. I don’t know why I said that, it was ridiculous. I mean. Unless. Unless you -“

“John, don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock rumbles.

“So, you and she never -“

“Shut up. Just shut up and go to sleep and promise me you will never talk about me and Irene Adler and sex in the same sentence, ever again. And for the last time, John, she’s a lesbian.”

This was hardly the kind of pillow talk he’d intended for, but it felt much better for just having said it. John nods, as if he had expected it. His misplaced jealousy, so misguided, so ridiculous. He wishes he could just turn him over and lie down on top of him, say

_“You. You’re the one I want. The only one I want, the only person I have ever wanted in my miserable life. You’re the only thing that has ever made me truly happy, you and the Work, but I’d have given it up, if I got to have you. It would have been terribly difficult, but you, John, it’s always you. You’re the light at the end of the tunnel, the thing that makes everything worth it. You keep me right, John Watson.”_

He wants to tell him how he’d been teetering over the edge, ready to fall, and John found him and lifted him up by the scruff of his neck and lit him up.

He can’t, though. There are lines he’s not allowed to cross.

“Right. Sorry. Christ.” He laughs (giggles) and so does Sherlock, just for a second. Exhaustion finally finds them both.

Maybe things will get better after this, maybe they won’t. Maybe it’ll be the same cycle of dancing around the things he really means, once again. They’re just men, after all. Two ordinary men with too many experiences and too many stories, it’s enough to make anyone tired. Haven’t they suffered enough?

Always struggling to reach for each other before falling apart again. A lifetime of many, many words spoken but none of them ever really _saying_ anything.

_I’m sorry._

_It’s okay._

_~~I love you.~~ _

 

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John,” he says gently. “I am much, much more than alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for following along with me on this little story. The response was much greater than I expected, and I am so grateful. Here's the final installment, and I hope it's a satisfying conclusion to all the pining. (Like I promised, this chapter is full of sickening, tooth rotting, diabetes inducing fluff) Let me know in the comments if you enjoyed it. :) I may write a follow-up epilogue later, so if you have any prompts, you can always hit me up on [my tumblr](https://subtext-is-my-division.tumblr.com/) or [my twitter](https://twitter.com/subtextismydiv)
> 
> The chapter title was taken from one of my favourite poems by Alen Ginsburg, (linked at the bottom) and while I'm sure many of you have already read it, some of you may not have, and whenever I read it, I get all the johnlock feels.  
> Also, if any of you are interested, [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7MgtVdWKeno) was playing in my head the entire time I was writing this.  
> As ever, thank you Chemical_Defect for beta-ing this and being such a good sport throughout. <3
> 
> IMPORTANT: if you came here through a rec, let me know!
> 
> Enjoy, and see you all soon!

 

 

 

 

 

> VI: the final wish is love
> 
>  
> 
>  _The weight of the world_  
>  _is love._  
>  _Under the burden_  
>  _of solitude,_  
>  _under the burden_  
>  _of dissatisfaction_  
>  _the weight,_  
>  _the weight we carry_  
>  _is love._
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

 

John kisses Sherlock ~~for the first time~~ properly standing outside 221B in the pouring rain.

The past few months have been difficult. It’s difficult to repair a relationship when there are thousands of missed opportunities, years of silences and misunderstandings. They have been careful with each other in a way they’ve never had to be, because they’ve realised how fragile the both of them are. Once the apologies are over, all that remains is making sure they don’t make the same mistakes, don’t hurt each other’s feelings because they’re both so stupid and insecure and afraid.

They have to learn to share each other’s spaces again, and it’s frustrating, and terribly slow, and Sherlock is so nervous and afraid of losing him. But it’s also lovely, a gentle kind of tease; almost like getting to know each other for the second time.

They’ve managed, somewhat. Against all evidence to the contrary. There are some cases, though John is unable to join him on all of them. John always brings Rosie with him to 221B, and Sherlock adores her, mostly because she’s so much like John; determined, stubborn, blue eyed and mischievous. John worries he isn’t a good father, that his daughter will grow up to be like him, and Sherlock disagrees; Rosie could do a lot worse than emulating John Watson. She learns to walk in the summer; chubby legs bringing her forward right into Sherlock’s waiting arms. (John watching, shiny-eyed, from the kitchen door).  
Sherlock had never thought he’d find children so vastly interesting. Rosie is different. She has a little bit of Mary in her as well, might grow up to have her dry wit. He’s glad. He doesn’t want her to be forgotten, and neither does John. This is something they’ve both learnt: the art of forgiveness. Mary deserves it as much as all of them.

John starts going to therapy again, at his own behest.

There are take-away weekends, crap-telly-watching evenings (although now they have that Netflix thing), John still goes to the clinic (it’s boring and dull but they had a talk about _responsibility_ and _finances_ and Sherlock sort of understood).  
John sleeps in his bed when he comes over late in the evening. Sometimes, only sometimes, Sherlock slips under the covers next to him. It’s all very platonic. It’s not what he’d wanted, but he has John again, and as always, he’s content.

Kind of.

He still _wants,_ though, it simmers underneath his skin all the time.  
He wants to bridge the gap between the two of them when they’re watching some shite film, rest his head on John’s shoulder, twine their fingers together. Wants to slip his arms around his waist from the back and kiss his nape when he’s cooking dinner. Wants to flick open his trousers and snake his hand underneath his pants, wrap it around his cock and squeeze.

But John _isn’t,_ (he could be) no, he isn’t _really._ Sherlock keeps thinking of doing it, stepping forward and bringing their lips together but he stops short each time.

So John is the first one to do it.

It’s been their first case together since the previous month. It had been dazzling. An old woman had been sent a cardboard box full of human ears, _lovely,_ it had been perfectly morbid and brilliant and Sherlock had impressed John with his cleverness (that was the best part)

They’re both standing outside 221B, and Sherlock can’t seem to find his keys. Mrs Hudson had left for her sister’s that morning and taken the spare key with her so he couldn’t holler her name until she opened the door. Sherlock scowls, patting down his now wet coat for the keys, his trouser pockets.

“Damn it, damn it,” he mutters.

And suddenly, John is curling his hands into the lapels of his Belstaff, pulling him towards himself, pressing his mouth against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s hands are still inside his pockets. He stills, his mouth frozen, unmoving.

Is John really -

Here?

On the street?

Oh.

This is a different kind of kiss from the one he’d given him that one night. That one had been alarmingly chaste, barely a peck of the lips.  
This time, Sherlock can feel what John’s mouth feels like against his, the slight dampness of the rain, the briefest flick of tongue. It doesn’t feel real, except it is, heart-achingly so.

He doesn’t kiss back because he doesn’t know if he should, (and he still can’t quite believe it’s happening) doesn’t really know how to (it’s been a while, fifteen years at least) and John presumably mistakes this for unwillingness, and pulls away, looking stricken.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, I thought -” he begins, and _no,_ none of that, there’s been quite enough of that, there’s been a _lifetime_ of that and there’s no way in _hell_ Sherlock is going to make John feel sorry for kissing him. So he lunges forward, cups John’s face in his hands, brings their lips together again. John sighs into his mouth, gingerly puts his hands around Sherlock’s biceps, pulls him closer. Rain falls all around them, soaks into his hair, onto his shoulders, trickles coldly down his neck. Sherlock opens his mouth against John’s curious tongue and _oh,_ that’s brilliant, John tastes a bit like tea, a bit like winter, perfectly delicious.

Sherlock is _kissing John Watson._

When he pulls away, panting softly, he’s smiling, eyes bright and a little nervous. Sherlock is in a similar state, cheeks burning.

“But you’re not -” Sherlock starts, because that’s a question he really needs to ask.

“Sherlock, there are lots of things I thought I wasn’t,” John interrupts. “I’m so tired of pretending. I wanted to kiss you. I’ve wanted to kiss you for ages, I don’t know why I didn’t. Can I kiss you again?”

Sherlock’s lips part, his head spins.

“Perhaps inside, where it’s not quite so wet?” he suggests, finding it difficult to speak over the expanding balloon of happiness inside his chest. “I think I’ll just have to pick the lock…”

***

They stumble inside the flat, lips pressed against each other’s, hands roaming over wet clothes. Somehow they manage to close the door and tumble onto the sofa, shaking fingers getting rid of extraneous clothes; coats, gloves, shoes go flying off their feet. Sherlock pulls John on top of him and reaches for him eagerly, cups his hands over his ears, weaves his fingers into damp hair, hooks one leg over his hip, touches and touches. John is a filthily competent kisser, he would be content to just lie here and be kissed by him.  
They’re leaking everywhere, making a mess of the carpet and the sofa.  Mrs Hudson will be furious if there are water stains on the wood.

John stops for a second, and Sherlock whines, why would he _do that_? Sherlock had been wanted this for years, he can’t stop _now-_

“Sherlock,” he says softly, and fits his palm against his jaw. “Sherlock, stop, for a moment.”

Huffing, he obeys. Lets his limbs hang limply over the edge of the sofa.

John smiles fondly at him. “This changes things, okay?” he says slowly, deliberately. “I... I want this to change things, between us. I know this was sudden, but what happens next doesn’t have to be.”

Sherlock swallows, the familiar panic and nervousness travelling up his body. “John…”

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” John whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re not a one-time thing, to me.”

“But you’re not gay,” Sherlock tells him, and it comes out sounding rather accusing.

“No,” John agrees. “I’m bisexual. I’ve done things in the past… with men… rarely, and I was never very proud of it. I spoke about it with my therapist, and I - I realised that I have,” he pauses, takes a deep breath. “that I have feelings for you. I think I’ve had them for years. But things got in the way, you know? And now, maybe, now maybe we can work on it, and we don’t have to rush into anything, honestly, it’s entirely up to you. If this is all you want, I’m fine with it. I know I don’t deserve it, with the way I’ve treated you in the past, and I will never stop regretting it. But if you’ll have me, I promise, I promise I will try my best to be worthy of you.”

_I think I’ve had them for years._

Sherlock groans, hooks his finger into the open vee of John’s white shirt, pulls him down and kisses him again. Urgently, desperately, after all, they are making up for lost time (So, _so_ much lost time). John responds just as eagerly, hips shifting against his until he can feel the evidence of his arousal against his thigh.

“I have also - ah, had feelings. Have. Currently. For you, that is,” he adds, to avoid any more misunderstandings.

(A woefully inadequate description of what John means to him, but perhaps it is too soon for Sherlock to tell John that he loves him so much that it hurts to look at him, to look and look and know that he’ll never have him, not in the way he wants. And he _has_ him now, and Sherlock is so terrible at keeping things, a confession of the scale would only ensure he lost this, whatever it is, as soon as he’d had it)

“God, we’re both such idiots,” John chuckles, and kisses him.

John’s lips ghost down his chin, they find a spot near his carotid artery and close around them, suck. Sherlock hasn’t been touched like this for years, it sends heat coursing through his body at an alarming rate. His erection presses up tightly against his trousers, and he can’t help but cant his hips forward to find friction against John. John gasps when they touch, and it’s thoroughly exciting even through layers of cotton and denim, his teeth sink in a little. Sherlock makes helpless little noises, runs his hand down John’s back, cups his hands over John’s arse, and _that_ makes John’s hips jerk against his.

“Never thought you were, hnngh, you know.” he murmurs, licking at his collarbone.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock answers him honestly.

“I always thought you were…”

“A virgin? Gay?” Sherlock smirks. “You know how I love to defy expectations. Not a virgin and queer as a rainbow flag. Even someone who wasn’t as spectacularly ignorant as you are would have noticed.”

“You do realise that the more you insult me, the more aroused I get?” he hovers above him again, and his grin is crooked and lovely and a little boyish. “Am I allowed to be jealous?”

“You needn’t be,” Sherlock assures him. “I haven’t had intercourse in well over ten years.”  
Sherlock can see the brief flash in John’s eyes, can literally hear the question _Not even Irene Adler?_ But before he can roll his eyes and scoff, John licks his lips and a hand brushes down his chest, his abdomen, until it cups his erection. “I’d like to change that, if you’ll let me.”

Sherlock makes a loud, desperate noise, his hips thrust upwards against his palm.

“God, _yes,_ ” he whispers.

John is slow and careful about it, watches him the entire time, and it’s heady and intoxicating, being pinned under the weight of those eyes. Darkened by arousal, hooded, never leaving his face. He pulls his zip down and pushes his trousers and pants down until they’re bunched up around his thighs, and gently wraps his fingers around his aching erection.

Sherlock gasps, back arching, his fingers immediately clasp on to John’s shoulders and squeeze. “ _John.”_

“God, you’re gorgeous,” John says, reverently, and kisses him. His hand moves gently, and Sherlock wouldn’t mind if he was just a little rougher, wouldn’t mind being manhandled by John, being flipped over and pushed into the cushions -

“Um... maybe later?” John suggests, cheeks going red, and _damn it,_ sexual arousal seems to have loosened his tongue _and_ turned his brain to mush if he can’t even keep a filter on his mouth. But he stops being embarrassed the next moment because John quickens his pace, just a bit. Smears his thumb around the tip, twists, and _pulls -_

John presses his mouth to his when Sherlock comes in his hand, fucking into his fist, so that the sound he makes during climax is lost in the cavern of his lips. He shudders and shudders, hips shifting lazily until John has wrangled the last remnants of orgasm out of him.

He lies down on top of him with a heavy grunt, and Sherlock tries to snake a hand between the two of them but John stops him. “Later,” he promises, and nips Sherlock’s earlobe as if to seal the deal. Sherlock is fine with that, John has turned him into a boneless lump, he doesn’t think he’s capable of doing anything right now. And besides, he thinks, overwhelming joy filling him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, maybe there _will_ be “later”.

***

“There’s no rush,” John whispers into his ear after they’re dry and on top of each on the sofa again. Sherlock against his chest. “We can take this as slowly as you want. I don’t have any expectations, alright?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock answers, feeling sleepy. John is so warm. This is nice. Better than he could have ever imagined.

“You’re alright, with all of this?”

 _Alright_? Sherlock has been in love with the man ever since he limped into his life and called him _brilliant._ Sherlock loved him when he decided to go and jump off a building, loved him when he had to shoot a man in the head for him, loved him when he had to convince him to go back to his lying wife.  Loved him enough to let him go. Sherlock loved him when John hated him, had wanted him for years, and he asks if he’s _alright_? The man really _is_ an idiot.

“John,” he says gently. “I am much, much more than alright.”

***

There are more difficult conversations, and questions, and a few more fights, and those parts are not pleasant. They’ve hidden so much from each other, and it’s terrifying, having to expose themselves to each other like this. Be vulnerable. Open.

But there are at last kisses over morning breakfasts, shy touches stolen during cases, a grope here and there.  John nervously holds hands with him when they’re out in public, Sherlock kisses his cheek once in front of Lestrade, and all he does is raise his eyebrows and mutter “about time” to himself.  
Later, of course, because he’s irritating and paternal, he pulls Sherlock aside and asks him if John is treating him alright, if things are okay, and if they both know what they’re doing. The answer to the last question is obviously _no,_ because honestly they’re both just flailing around and hoping for the best.

(still a better reaction than Ms Hudson, who wasn’t so much as told as she caught them snogging in the foyer, and in her excitement had dropped her groceries all over the floor. They were going to tell her, obviously, but they just wanted a day to themselves)

They try to keep it a secret from the Yard, but rumours travel fast and the truth travels faster, and it isn’t soon before there are a few hurtful slurs, here and there. John minds very little when they are directed at him, but the moment someone calls Sherlock a “prissy pillow princess who probably needs a good spank once in a while” John turns around, eyes cold with fury, and punches the idiot officer in the mouth for his trouble.

“ _Fucking fag!”_ he gurgles, palm pressed to his bleeding nose. John only tilts his head and gives him that small, dangerous smile.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Sherlock tells him, trying to glare but failing.

John shrugs. “I know. You’d do the same though, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock would probably go so far as to break an arm, but he just rolls his eyes, trying to fight off a smile.

There’s a awful lot of paperwork following that, Lestrade shouting at them, shouting at the officer and telling him to be professional or get out,   _and_ a call to Mycroft for assistance on this mess, which is worse. But he can’t have John going to prison for assaulting an officer, so there’s that.

***

John talks about Mary sometimes, and it’s fine. He loved her once, and she was a part of his life, the mother of his child. Sherlock can live with that. Sherlock misses her too, and the dark, suffocating guilt about her death will never truly leave him. She had tried to be his friend, and not many people can boast of that.

***

Two weeks later, on a freezing winter evening, Sherlock decides to ask John to move in with him. (again)

Christmas is in a few days, London is covered with a blanket of snow. Sherlock is sitting in front of the fireplace with Rosie in his lap, who is currently smashing the stuffed bee he gave her repeatedly against the coffee table. She must be testing the strength of the fibres, which seems like a worthy pursuit, so he doesn’t stop her.

Instead, he looks up at John, who’s reading the current issue of the BMJ, propped up on his armchair with a cup of tea. Sherlock knows he’s not really concentrating, because he keeps looking down at the two of them and smiling fondly. He thinks Sherlock doesn’t notice, it’s practically insulting.

 Sherlock waits for the next round of staring, which should be in approximately 3…2…1…ah, there it is. John glances at him and Rosie, their eyes meet, and he smiles.

“She’s going to destroy Bumble,” he informs him.

“Ah, it’s just a toy. I’ll get her another.”

“You’re spoiling her.”

“Hardly. I’m furthering her scientific curiosity.”

John chuckles to himself, and begins to read his book again, but Sherlock clears his throat. John tips his head back up. “Yeah?”

“I think you should move in with me.”

John’s eyes widen. “What -“

Sherlock sighs, puts Rosie down gently in front of him, and crawls over to John’s feet. “Hear me out.”

John’s jaw is tense, his cheeks pale. His journal lay forgotten on his lap. “Alright.”

“There are already toddler gates all over the flat, the kitchen is entirely unreachable. But I was thinking that it would be more practical to simply shift the lab down to 221C, Mrs Hudson is never going to get any new tenants and the flat has excellent ventilation.  
I’ll get a new fridge for the new lab, and  we could clean this one out, get rid of the body parts so there’s more space for baby food. Rosie could use your bedroom. And -“ he pauses, takes a deep breath, looks at John meaningfully, and continues. “You could sleep in mine.”

John’s mouth parts. He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare at Sherlock. So Sherlock soldiers on.

“I am not an ignorant man,” he says, rises up higher on his knees so they’re at a more equal height. “I understand this will be a difficult transition for you, I am not the perfect co parent for Rosie, but I do love her, John, and I will try my best. I imagine there will be some enormous changes, I live an odd sort of life. But I want you here,” he reaches for John’s hands and slots his fingers between his. John grasps back.  “All the time. I don’t want you to come here with an overnight bag, I want you to share my closet space. My bed. I don’t want there to be a spare toothbrush for you to use, I want you to have your own things in the bathroom. I don’t want you to keep leaving. I want this to be your home, Rosie’s home, _our_ home.”

John chuckles weakly. “You’ve thought about this in detail, haven’t you?”

Sherlock smiles back. “I know I am not an easy man to live with. But I wanted to show you that I was ready to make compromises. For this. For us.”

John’s eyes are shining with unshed tears. He weaves his fingers into his hair and kisses him on his forehead, and then grabs his hands and tugs at him. “Come here,” he indicates his lap.

It’s not an easy fit, Sherlock has freakishly long limbs and while John is quite strong and has lovely muscle definition it still takes a little bit of awkward manoeuvring until he’s finally straddling his lap. John takes a deep breath, locks his eyes with his, and they twist their fingers together.

“I’m not an easy man to live with either,” he breathes. “I’ve hurt you so terribly, before. I don’t know if I deserve that, living with you, all the time. I don’t want to make any more mistakes, not with you.”

“Please, John. No more. No more apologising. I’ve forgiven you so many times, can you please trust me now?”

“And you didn’t sign up for a toddler,” he points out, almost desperately. “I won’t be able to drop everything to run along with you when there’s been a murder in some far off town. I can’t - I can’t do that anymore, not now, when I’ve got her.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Ah, well. I’ve got creaky joints, I’m not running around as much as usual either, you’ll notice. We’ll figure it out, John.”

“She’ll wake us up in the middle of the night, constantly.”

“I look forward to it.”

“We’ll have to change nappies. Clean up her vomit.”

“I am a man of science, John, bodily fluids will hardly put me off.”

“And then there’s school, and university, and -“

“John,” Sherlock cups his face in both his hands and wills him to stop. “Breathe.”

John breathes, looks at him with an expression of such open vulnerability that it makes Sherlock choke on all of his words.

“We. Will. Figure. It. Out,” he says fiercely. “I promise.”

John nods, swallowing, and then he’s leaning forward and pressing his lips to Sherlock’s, hard and bruising; an anchoring. Sherlock groans, and John’s fingers find their way into his curls and tighten, and he pulls him closer, so that there’s nothing between them but these irritating layers of clothes, and kisses him so deeply and soundly that it drives out every other thought in his head beside the feel of John’s teeth, his tongue, the scrape of his day-old stubble.

“Okay,” he says, against his mouth. “Okay.”

Rosie gets annoyed that they’ve both turned their attention away from her, pulls on Sherlock’s leg so that he picks her up and plops her between the two of them, kisses the top of her sweet-smelling golden-haired head. He looks up at John, and John smiles back, and somewhere, something slots into place.

***

That night, he reaches for John in the dark, breaking that odd unspoken rule that they don’t do anything in bed besides hold each other. There haven’t touched each other a great deal since that time on the sofa; a hand job or two pressed up against the kitchen counter, Sherlock had knelt down in front of John when he was reading a book and taken him into his mouth. _That_ had been lovely, especially the part where John had tugged at his hair and ejaculated on his face. He’d been terribly apologetic about it afterwards, but then Sherlock had said he’d enjoyed it, swiping some off his cheek and popping it into his mouth with a finger, and his contrite expression had morphed into one of smugness.

Tonight, Sherlock curls his fingers into his sleep shirt, tugs him towards himself, presses his mouth to John’s almost desperately. He needs him, tonight. Needs the closeness, needs to know that there is something they’re working towards so painfully: something to show for all this slow torment.

John groans against his mouth, cups his hand around the back of his neck and twines his fingers into the curls there, deepens the kiss. Grabs Sherlock by the hips and pulls him on top so he’s effectively straddling his lap.

Sherlock smirks, rolls his hips against him, bends down and kisses him again. Slow, deep, just the way he likes it. Just because he hasn’t done this in a while doesn’t mean it has taken him long to get back into practice. John grows pliant and warm beneath him, cups his hands around his hips and encourages more grinding. Sherlock kisses him until they’re both hard and panting, until John is squirming underneath him, hips making tiny shivered thrusts. He moves back a little so his clothed erection presses against the crease of his arse, and John’s eyes widen, the grip at his hips go tight.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed as he rubs against him, just like that, one hand on John’s chest. It’s good, it’s lovely, but it’s not enough.

He wants it, wants it so _badly._

“John,” he whispers, bending his head to kiss him on his throat. He fingers the hem of his t-shirt.  
“Can I?”

John hesitates, Sherlock follows the bob of his Adam’s apple. He still hasn’t seen John without a shirt yet, hasn’t been given the luxury, and John hasn’t seen him, either. Maybe it’s time they put the last barriers behind themselves, they’ve seen each other at their worst, a couple of gnarled scars is hardly going to put either of them off.

John finally nods, and Sherlock lifts his t-shirt off with great eagerness. He throws it behind them, somewhere on the floor.

John’s scar is… fascinating. He’d been almost correct about the measurements, not perfect, perhaps, but close enough. Pink and gnarled, it got infected and healed badly. It stretches across his shoulder in a perfect starburst shape. Sherlock runs his hands across it reverently.

“This,” he says quietly. “This brought you to me.”

He lets John catch him by the hips and roll them over so he’s on top, and kiss him. It’s a slow, lazy kiss, a kiss that says _we have all the time in the world, for once._ They take their time touching, fingers lace together, hips rolling the entire while, Sherlock places his palm against John’s chest, feels the steady thrumming of his heart under his fingertips.

“Want you,” he whispers against his mouth. “Please.”

“Yeah?” John kisses down his neck. “What do you want?”

Sherlock takes a few shaky breaths before he says it. “Inside. Want you inside.”

He thinks John will hesitate, that the unfamiliarity of anal sex will put him off. He doesn’t know what he meant when he said that bit about having done “things” with men in the past and jealousy had prevented him from asking. The technicalities of positioning and so forth might be enough to dissuade him from the act. He thinks John will pull away and suggest they stick to oral sex and wanking each other off.

Instead John perches above him, eyes wide. “You sure?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes.” He can feel the grounding weight of John’s body on top of him, and it’s torture, to have him so close and not close _enough._

“And this way, you want to do it this way, with me on -“ John’s cheeks turn a dark shade of pink, and Sherlock wants to kiss him. For a man with such a colourful sexual past…

“Yes, I’d rather be the receiving partner, for our first time, if you wouldn’t mind.”  
They could explore various other possibilities later, it’s not as if there’s any rush, he thinks, feeling practically giddy with anticipation.  He wants to do _everything_ with John. Wants to consume and be consumed, wants to bend over for him and get pounded into walls and mattresses, wants to  push him down and do the same, find out what he sounds like when he’s being fucked.

_Everything._

John chuckles incredulously, ducks his head as if to hide his bashful smile. He kisses Sherlock softly underneath his ear.  
“Jesus, why on earth would I mind, I’ve been thinking about this for ages.”

“You have?”

John nods, smiles crookedly, and starts moving his body downwards. Brushing his lips over every part of his body he can reach: the dips of his collarbone, his sternum. They’ve got better at this; touching each other. They used to be more nervous before, permission sought every moment new territory was breached, movements slow and deliberate, plenty of time given to withdraw consent. By now they’ve started to read each other better, and John, John can read his body like a _book._ Plays him in the same practised way Sherlock plays his Stradivarius, like some sort of veteran violin player, and what is he even talking about? John kisses down his chest, hands brush over the swell of his ribs.

He stops when he reaches his abdomen, hot breath ghosts over the old bullet hole. It’s a clean nick, now pink and shiny with age.

“I’m sorry,” John whispers, presses his mouth against it.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just cups his hand around the back of his head, strokes his hair. They don’t have to be sorry anymore. He’s so tired of regrets, and he knows John is too. John continues his downward journey, sucks a bruise onto his iliac crest, and Sherlock gasps, his mouth is so close to his cock, it’s practically digging into his cheek. He can hear John huff a chuckle against his skin before he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his pyjamas, slips them down. Sherlock helps by shucking them off. John groans at the sight of him, says “God damn it, you’re gorgeous,” kisses the crease of his groin and them scoops him into his mouth.

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock immediately moans, thrusting up and forwards, between his lips. “If you - if you do that this will be over even before you’ve begun.”

John takes no notice of his warning, continues to suck him, almost lazily. Sherlock writhes underneath him, trying not to choke the man but slipping his fingers into his hair for leverage all the same. John makes a wet sound when he pops off, sufficiently satisfied with himself, and grinning roguishly as if to emphasise this. He pushes himself up, slowly runs his hands up Sherlock’s thighs to grip him around the waist. “Can you -?”

Sherlock is about to nod eagerly before he wavers, hesitates. John has never seen his scars, has only ever touched them when his wandering hands would slip under his t-shirt and scratch his back. Even in the half-light of the room John notices his expression, and misunderstands, eyes softening. He brushes his knuckles against a cheekbone. “It’s alright, love. If you don’t want to, it’s fine. It’s alright if you’ve changed your mind.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, I - I just. It’s not exactly -“ he closes his eyes and shudders a breath, rolls over slowly until he’s on his chest. He doesn’t know how to explain. But he knows that there’s no point, hiding anymore. John should see them, needs to see them.  
Not as a punishment, just so he knows that Sherlock is just as broken as he is, that they both have scars they’re not proud of.

John inhales sharply. “Oh, _love,_ ” he whispers, and his fingers trace the ridges and bumps, the ropey skin and raised lines. Sherlock breathes deeply, still hiding his face. Trepidation makes him feel warm.

John lowers his mouth to each of the scars, kisses them. Sherlock trembles under his touch, has never been on the receiving end of this kind of tenderness before. Never thought that even his bruises were worthy of affection.

“I would hunt down and kill each of the men who did this to you,” he murmurs, kissing a blade of a shoulder. “I would, but I imagine they’re already dead. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to do this, and I am so, so grateful to you for saving my life. I never told you, I should have. God, you’ve saved my life so many times, in so many ways, I -” his voice hitches. “I never realised how much you sacrificed, for me.”

He rests his forehead against the place between his shoulder blades, and Sherlock can almost _feel_ the rising tide of emotion in him. He raises a hand over his shoulder and finds John’s fingers cupped around the bony ridge. They grasp at each other tightly, as if they’re both trying to bring the other from the edge of something.

After a few seconds, however, Sherlock can feel John twitch where he’s pressed up against his arse, and it drives the two of them into a fit of giggles. Sherlock snuffling down into the pillow, John huffing laughter against his skin. “Sorry, did that ruin the mood?”

“No, just reminded you to get inside me,” Sherlock tells him, turning his head and shooting him a smirk. “There’s lube in the bedside cabinet.”

“Er…condoms?”

“John, I’ve been tested to death these past few months, you’ve seen my blood reports. And you obviously haven’t fucked around with anyone, so I think we can dispense the use of latex protection. Please just get the lube.”

“Right, ok,” John says, sounding as if he’s just been given an order by a superior officer. (Sherlock decides to explore that at a later time). He peels away from his body and Sherlock can hear him rummaging about in the cabinet before he finds it.

“This is… old. Are you sure it’s not expired?” Sherlock sits up on his knees and turns around, rolling his eyes. John is holding up the bottle to whatever little light is in the room, peering at it. He’s adorable, _obviously,_ but Sherlock’s erection is dripping pre come everywhere and this _really_ isn’t the time.

“It’s not -“ he begins, tries to take the bottle from him and lube himself up, if necessary, but John pulls it out of his reach… he’s smirking.

“It’s half empty,” he muses. “When was the last time you used this?”

Sherlock feels very hot suddenly. “I don’t remember,” he mutters, trying ineffectively to glare at John.

(He does remember, he remembers _quite_ vividly, it was the night John had kissed him for the first time, he’d woken up and he hadn’t been there, and the sheets had smelled like him, and he couldn’t resist. Plugged his fingers up his arse and fucked himself, thinking about John gripping his hips and slamming into him from behind).

John shakes his head disbelievingly, then cups a hand around Sherlock’s hip and pushes him down against the pillows. Not roughly, but in a way that suggests that John is used to taking the lead in most bedroom proceedings. Lovely, Sherlock could get used to that. He obediently gets on his hands and knees, and John presses himself to his back.

“I know you remember,” he whispers, tugs on an earlobe with teeth, Sherlock gasps. “And I’m going to get that story out of you later.” He gives his arse a rough squeeze in promise.

And with that, Sherlock hears the click of the cap, a pause of a few seconds, and one calloused finger presses against his hole. The other slides down his back and rests alongside his ribs.

“Been years since I’ve done this,” John says from behind him. “Might be out of practice. Just… just promise me you’ll tell me if you’re uncomfortable, or if I hurt you, alright?”

Sherlock nods, pushes back against his finger eagerly. John pushes in, achingly slowly, _oh._ John’s fingers are breaching him for the first time. Lube drips from his hand, down his perineum, stains the sheets. John presses his mouth to one bony shoulder, pulls out before sliding his finger in again. Sherlock makes a helpless, desperate noise, tries to shift back, to take more of John inside him.

“God, never thought I’d be able to do this to you,” John whispers wonderingly.  
Sherlock never thought so either, that one day they’d be touching each other, like this, that they’d be driven to so much vulnerability that they’d allow themselves to be prised open, looked at.

One, two, John fingers him open slowly and tenderly, takes his time. Works past the tight ring of muscles until he can fit three fingers in there, and Sherlock is moaning into the pillows and a steady steam of precome is leaking from his cock on to the bed. Shoves them in just a little deeper until they brush his prostate (John’s fingers aren’t long enough to stimulate it entirely but even the barest brush makes want pool in his gut) and Sherlock keens.

“God, you’re lovely,” John murmurs in his ear, before slipping out. Muscle contracts forlornly, fluttering around empty space. Sherlock whimpers, curves his body and juts his arse out in a silent plea.

John pecks a quick kiss on to the back of his neck, and then slides both hands down his flanks to grip his hips. “Turn around, sweetheart.”

“Should have known you were a missionary man,” Sherlock finds himself giggling, turning over on to his back. His erection lies flat against his stomach, making quite a mess. _He_ must look like a mess, and they haven’t even started.

John’s smile as he hovers above him is so tender and soft that it makes his heart stutter. He cups a hand around his cheek, leans down to kiss him. “I want to do this every way with you, Sherlock. In however many positions you want. But for our first time? Yeah. I want to see your face when I put my cock inside you. I want to see the shape of your mouth when I make you come.”  
He bites his bottom lip at that bit, and Sherlock breathes in sharply, hooks his arms around John’s neck so he can cup both hands around the back of his head.

“Yes,” he answers weakly. “I would like that, too.”

“Bet you would,” John smirks, and then, cupping his hands under the pits of his knees, pulls them up and wraps them around his waist. The position makes his cock press up against his hole, and Sherlock’s lips part as he closes his eyes and presses down against him.

“Inside, John, _please._ ”

“Alright, love,” he says softly, cups his hips with his hands and lifts him up a bit so the angle is more efficient. John kisses him softly on the corner of his eyebrow, and then brings his forehead against his. Their breaths mingle as he gently starts to ease in, Sherlock’s mouth falls open and his breath catches just for a second. John slants his mouth against his, not really kissing him, just _touching_.

And oh, it’s tight. Fantasising about having John’s cock inside of him and actually having it inside of him are vastly different things. He is acutely aware of everything: John’s strained breath as he slides in, the grip of his fingers at his waist, his own damp chest. Sherlock releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding when John is fully seated, and his eyes find John’s.

“Sherlock, breathe,” John whispers, hands running up gently up his sides, cupping his jaw. “Breathe.”

“ _John_ ,” he whimpers. An old poem comes to mind - _the star to every wandering bark._ God knows who wrote it, but that’s exactly how it feels when he looks into John’s eyes. Being found.

“You alright?” he asks. Sherlock can feel his hips twitch with the restraint of not pushing deeper inside, taking Sherlock hard. Sherlock nods, feels warmth creep into his cheeks and chest, and pushes back down against John’s cock. They both groan at the sensation, John lifts a hand to the headboard for leverage before pulling out and pushing back in with a slow, torturous roll of his hips.

“ _Oh,_ ” Sherlock is pushed back against the mattress, can feel the cotton beginning to make a frizzy mess of his hair. John looks down at him, eyes hooded and dark, watches his face for any sign of discomfort, before repeating the motion again, this time deeper -

“ _Fuck,_ ” Sherlock hisses, and John smirks, because Sherlock rarely uses profanity and John must know this is only because it feels so good, because John is _inside of him_ and stretching him.

“You’re significantly larger than I expected,” Sherlock says breathlessly, rocking his hips back against John to meet every forward thrust. “An adequate size for - _ah -_ prostate simulation.”

“Keep talking like that and I’m going to come,” John replies, and lifts Sherlock’s legs by the ankles and throws them over his shoulders. Sherlock inhales sharply at the newer angle of penetration, his back arches when he can feel the tip of John’s cock against his prostate.

“Oh _God-“_

 _“_ Good. Keep talking to me, love.”

“Yes, _yes -_ John, harder, please -“

“Think I can manage that -“

He catches Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own, and, _ah, fuck -_ makes a sharp, quick, push inside of him, enough to make Sherlock’s mouth fall open against his and mewl something unintelligible. His palms run smoothly over his thighs, around his ribs, find the peaks of his nipples and pull.

“ _John -_ fuck,” Sherlock shivers at the touch, he has never thought to experiment with that before and this is clearly a grave oversight on his part - the sensation of John’s rough calloused hands on his sensitive skin is just on this side of too much and _not enough._ John starts to increase the pace of his thrusts, keeps them shallow enough not to hurt him, yet still hard and fast.

Sherlock purses his lips and tosses his head, and John immediately curls his fingers into his hair, stilling him into submission. Sherlock looks up at him helplessly, because he can’t, it’s too much - oh _God._ John slows his pace, starts to fuck him slower, deeper, enough to brush his prostate with each push. His fingers loosen, trail down his face and he unpins his bottom lip from his teeth.

“I want to hear you, love. Make all the noise you want.”

“John, please, I - deeper, _please -_ “ he tries to form complete sentences, but he can’t. John hooks both arms under his waist and lifts him up, cradles his arse in his lap and starts moving his hips in sharp, deliberate strokes that hit him _just right_ , oh, oh. Sherlock fits his hands under his jaw and tips his head downwards so they can look at each other, and John’s expression sends a thrill through his entire body. Eyes dark, possessive, anchoring. Sherlock couldn’t look anywhere else even if he wanted to.

“You’re perfect,” John says, voice rough, “absolutely perfect. Could do this for hours. Look at you, you beautiful thing.”

His movements grow quicker, more frenzied, Sherlock’s moans tumble into short gasps of breath as he bounces against John’s lap, his cock leaking all over his stomach.  He keeps trying to find John’s name but all that flows out of his mouth are incoherent vowel noises. How on earth does he frame sentences this way? How does he tell John that when he fucks him, he swipes away all the cold, dark parts of him and fills him with warmth? How does he say that he had felt empty for so long, but then John came into his life and made all the loneliness go away?

“John,” he pleads “John, I -“ his heels bounce against John’s back, and he tries to clamp himself tighter around him, bear down against him. John cups his hands around his hips in a tight, bruising grip, yes, John, hold me like that.

“Yeah, love. Tell me,” John leans down and kisses a crest of a cheekbone, tender. “God, you’re so tight, how are you so tight? Amazing. Brilliant.”

The pressure builds, slow and torturous. His cock bobs against his stomach and John trails his fingers, ever so lightly, down the shaft. Sherlock gasps, squirms against him, heels dig into his back in what must be a painful way.

“I think I could make you come without touching your cock, gorgeous. I think you could do it. Come on, love. Come for me.”

His hand is gone far too soon and instead he’s fitting his palm against the back of his neck, pushing Sherlock’s face towards him and kissing him. Wet, slippery, lovely. Heat and warmth and Sherlock can do nothing but pant helplessly against his mouth, hook his arms around his shoulders and try to press their damp bodies together, meet John thrust for thrust, push for push. John is fucking him and he can’t tell where he ends and John begins, can only feel the pleasure coiling in the pit of his stomach.

John’s cock slides in and out of him, the burn sizzles and vanishes and leaves only something white hot, toe curling. There is only the combined rhythm of their frantic breaths, the sweat from John’s temples, his hands on his body, Sherlock fingers twined in his hair.

His body turns rigid and his mouth falls open, and John lifts an arm to cup his face to force them to look at each other.

“That’s it. Look at me. I’ve got you.”

 Their gazes meet and it’s as though John’s darkened gaze is the only thing keeping him anchored. The balance shifts, tips over the edge, and he’s coming, he’s coming, back arching and legs clamping around John’s shoulders in a vice-like grip.

“John, John, I’m _coming -_ “ his mind fills with white noise, and Sherlock forgets everything outside of John. His touch. His cock. His mouth. Sherlock will fall apart, he will, he’ll crumble if John doesn’t keep him together.

“Beautiful, fuck, _fuck –‘_

It seems endless, and Sherlock can feel the rhythm of John’s hips become frenzied and haphazard, and the grip at his waist digs in. The movement stills, John’s mouth parts and his eyes widen, he groans out Sherlock’s name, and then he’s ejaculating inside of him, pushing their foreheads together, saying Sherlock’s name over and over again.

“Sherlock, fuck, I - oh _God,_ Sherlock-“

John managed to _almost_ time their climaxes together, and isn’t that lovely, isn’t that such a _John_ thing to do. Sherlock pants heavily, his hands still cupped behind John’s head and his legs still wrapped around his waist.

John doesn’t say anything, just fits their mouths together and kisses him. Softly, gently, and so full of tenderness that it makes Sherlock _ache._ He has never been touched like that before, never wanted to touch _someone else_ like that, make them feel cherished. He kisses back, as much as he can manage with his exhaustion.

“This might sting a bit,” John whispers against his lips as he slips out, and hmm - he’s right. He winces slightly but then John is out, tumbling into the mattress next to him and opening out his arms for Sherlock. Sherlock goes willingly, lies down against his good shoulder, fits himself against his body.

“We’re filthy,” he comments, after a few seconds.

John bursts out laughing, looks down at him incredulously. “We finally did that after eight years of pining and _that_ is what you have to say? Jesus. You never fail to surprise me.”

“My mind is not the most reliable of places to be, post coitus,” Sherlock replies, a little snappishly.

John hums thoughtfully before saying in a musing voice, “Does that mean I fucked your brains out?”

That makes them both laugh, and it’s just a little bit cathartic. The acknowledgement of the shift in their relationship is implied, and when silence falls between them again and John looks at him with that familiar fondness, Sherlock’s heart is so full he can’t find the words to speak.

***

Later, John has to get up (tedious), grab a flannel, clean them both up (that was nice), check on Rosie (sound asleep),  insist on changing the sheets, (why? Sherlock has no problem sleeping in a puddle of their genetic material), and finally, finally, get back into bed with him.

Sometimes Sherlock likes to wrap his arms around John and pull him against his chest, but tonight it’s the other way around. Sherlock doesn’t mind, he adores waking up like this, legs slotted together, John’s nose in his hair and his arms around his waist. It makes him feel safe.

They lie together in the darkness, warm and content, Rosie breathing peacefully on the baby monitor.

“That day. On the tarmac,” John murmurs against his ear. Sherlock hums in response, because he was just about to go to sleep.

“The amount of drugs you took. They were enough to -“ John’s voice shakes, and why are they talking about this now? It’s not a time Sherlock likes to remember.

“John.”

“No, listen to me. They were enough to kill you, Sherlock. And I know you. I know you wouldn’t have just made a _mistake_ and ended up taking too much. I know you well enough to understand that that was deliberate.”

Sherlock swallows. “Yes.”

“Christ. Christ, Sherlock. Why?”

It’s easier to do it this way, without looking at him. “Because I would never see you again. They had given me six months. It was a suicide mission, plain and simple. And I - I just didn’t see any point going through with it when there was no chance that I would ever return to you. And besides, even if I had, what was there for me to return to? You had a wife. A child. A _family._ There was no place for me there.”

John stills for a second. Then his arms around him tighten in a crushing grip, he pulls him against his body and leans his forehead against the spot between his shoulder blades, takes a stuttering breath. “But, Sherlock- you said. I didn’t think you meant- they sent you on a mission they knew you wouldn’t-“ his voice cracks, Sherlock feels his heart squeeze. This is exactly what he never wanted John to know, it was too painful. He never wanted John to have that kind of burden, John would never have been able to live with it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He doesn’t want to, but he turns around, shifts so that they’re face to face, his voice is a desperate, frantic thing, because doesn’t John _see_?

“You think that’s the kind of goodbye I wanted?” he asks, feverishly.  “It was the last time I would have ever seen you, do you think I would have left you with that thought? When I realised you didn’t understand- I knew it was for the better. I wanted you happy, John. That’s the last thing I wanted to see. I didn’t- I couldn’t have left you grieving, not again. I wanted to tell you-” he stops, licks his lips. “There were things I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t.”

John grips the back of his neck in a bruising grip, pulls him closer. His gaze is heated, his jaw tight.

“I love you,” he says, simply, and Sherlock’s heart stops in his chest at the words.

“I loved you then, and I should have told you. I love you now, I loved you the moment I saw you at Bart’s, I was too blind to see it. Sherlock, I want you to know that - this? You and me? I’m in it for the long haul. For as long as you’ll have me. I’m so sorry it took me so long for me to tell you, and I’m sorry so many things got in the way. When I think about how much time we wasted…Jesus, I’m sorry. I love you, Sherlock. You think you don’t have a place in my life? You insane git. That’s my fault. For making you feel that way, but _you_ are my family, Sherlock. You, Rosie, me, I don’t need anything else. You are my home. I mean it. _I love you_. Thank you. Thank you, for coming back to me.”

Sherlock blinks slowly, sniffs. There’s a hard lump in his throat. There are so many things he wants to say, the things he kept bottled up inside of him because he was too afraid of what would happen if he let them out. Instead of letting them out, he cups John’s face in his hands and kisses him. He doesn’t know how to put it into words, what he feels for this short, unassuming man. This man with the temper and the jumpers, the one who makes brilliant tea and carries a gun in his waistband. He tries to say it with his lips, his tongue, his teeth, but because John is John and can sometimes be as thick as a brick, he also says it back.

“I love you too,” he chokes out. He wants to keep going, keep saying it, over and over, make up for all that _god damn_ lost time, for the missed opportunities, for every moment they _could_ have, but _didn’t._

John kisses him back, fiercely, pulls him closer, till they’re flush against each other, skin against skin.

“I’m sorry,” John whispers. “I should have told you before, when-“

“Doesn’t matter. Tell me _now._ ”

So he does. And he does. Peppering his face with kisses, fingers sliding between his. Over and over. I love you, I love you, I love you. Until they’re tired and sleepy and disgustingly sentimental, until they fall asleep, tangled together.

(like lovers)

***

Sometimes Sherlock imagines what it would have been like, if they’d told each other all those years ago. When he was young and unpredictable and a little bit ruthless, and John was broken and angry and self-destructive. He imagined it would have all been very reckless, they would have done the things that younger, more intense men do: adrenaline fuelled sex, laughter, promises that neither of them could keep. Maybe it wouldn’t have been right, then. They wouldn’t have realised how precious it was, the thing that they had found with each other. Maybe they had to fall apart before they came together.

He imagines it, and feels a little sad. How different it would have been if they’d done all this when they were less scarred. All the kisses they could have shared in all this time. All the mornings they could have woken up together.

But that is when John catches him being maudlin, and he kisses him, kisses the sadness away. John will bring him back from all those pointless thoughts, to here and now, his feet in Sherlock’s lap and some awful crime thriller in his own. John’s ash blonde hair turned to just ash, deeper wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, slightly ( _slightly_ ) better dressing sense. Still the same. Still here. It’s alright though, because John will make him tea for the rest of his life, and it’ll be pressed into his hand with a kiss on his cheek, and Rosie will tug at his hair with her particular brand of painful childish affection, and Sherlock gets to think of what comes _next_ with something very much like excitement.

***

What comes next, is this: Sherlock finally gets the hand holding in Regents Park, kisses in front of the fireplace, stolen at crime scenes. Date nights. (usually after cases, sometimes with Rosie in a high chair next to them) Shags over the dining table and on the sofa and in supply closets at the Yard (that had been an interesting day for Lestrade) and in bed, so many times in bed, sometimes sweet and soft and sometimes hard and rough but always ending with them wrapped around each other, sweaty and sticky and so achingly in love that it should be _intolerable._

 _  
_ (It isn’t)

The future is anybody’s guess, and their progress has never been linear, has it? And since when has it been easy for them? Would it ever get easier? Probably not. But at least Sherlock doesn’t have to do it alone, anymore.

And obviously, Sherlock supposes, watching John painstakingly type a new blog entry while Rosie plays with her (now quite mangled) bee at his feet - things didn’t fall together seamlessly, or in any way that could be called _normal._ They fell together in a way they decidedly should not have, like jagged pieces fitting into place against all odds.

But in the end, he decides, John is worth it.

 _They_ are worth it. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poems referenced:
> 
>  
> 
> [Don't Go Far Off- Pablo Neruda](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/don-t-go-far-off/)
> 
>  
> 
> [From the Garden- Anne Sexton](http://www.ayearofbeinghere.com/2015/06/anne-sexton-from-garden.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [I Think I Should Have Loved You Presently- Edna St Vincent Millay](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46556/i-think-i-should-have-loved-you-presently)
> 
>  
> 
> [One Art- Elizabeth Bishop](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/one-art)
> 
>  
> 
> [Boo Forever- Richard Brautigan](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/boo-forever/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Song- Allen Ginsburg](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-3/)


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